In the room filled with kittens
she slides her feet. It is habit borne
of habitat, a choice of voice;
little ones mewing for fresh meat.
Like some cannibal romance
it is her favorite dance
around the place; little incisor
blades excite her, snapping jaws
to split and shear –
she winces, squints, bites her lip
sheds tear to lose her left big toe,
her sense of balance starts to go.
She is the last of seven sisters –
a family fate of distinct extinction;
pieces falling by the way. Voices say
as the youngest
she is most tender, a pale-skinned morsel
doomed to be remembered as dismembered,
her scattered remnants tossed out back
strewn amidst hash, trash and rotting hay.
The older girls sacrificed
their flesh for the good of – well,
the good of evil, as by design;
demonic felines hell has spawned
ate living meat — feet to face — yawned;
then moved on to next in line.
Once this final child is gone
the little whiskered devils –
they will crap, nap and lick their rears.
When dinnertime passes without note —
a rumble in empty bellies;
muted growls grow in their throats,
sun that dawns on blood red sky,
they see each other through hungry eyes.
Steve Sibra grew up on a farm near the very small town of Big Sandy, Montana. After college, Steve opened a retail store buying and selling vintage comic books, a career he enjoyed for over 30 years. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in numerous literary publications including Matador Review, NRG, Crab Fat Magazine and others. Steve and his wife Stacey live in Seattle.