Poetry by Lynne Cattafi
You are at the end of a leash now
but with every lurch toward your prey
you beg me to remember you once belonged
to the king. I trace my line back to William the Conqueror,
you assert, sniffing the air. Not the mighty foxhound,
true, but his smaller helpmate.
Then I see the ancient in you
as you pick up the bloated robin (resting so gently
in the August sun she could be asleep)
and shake her and her tiny broken bones, just to be sure.
Now do you see who I am, you say? A thousand years
of breeding, extinct, cannot be reversed no matter
how you desire, and I wonder what is buried deep
in our bones that we try, but cannot, undo.
About the Poet
Lynne Cattafi teaches English to middle schoolers at a private school in New Jersey. When she’s not teaching her students to love writing poetry and reading books, she enjoys drinking coffee, building Lego cities from scratch with her children, walking her beagle, and reading historical fiction and mysteries. Her poetry has appeared in Elephants Never, Marias at Sampaguitas and Vita Brevis. She can be found on Twitter at @lynnecatt.