Paul McDonald

My Lover, Irena Dubrovna

You kept yourself awake at night by purring, reflecting on your history of wickedness. Cats didn't like you, saw themselves mirrored in your amber eyes; birds glimpsed their certain death. You'd choke the ones that didn't die

of fright, stand beside their cages dressed in mourning clothes, your black coiffure lacquered. You had no choice. I loved you long before we kissed; you'd hang from my lip with your needle teeth, wrap yourself

in fur to walk the night streets. I'd stroke your coat on your return, wet with scent, seal sleek. You'd stalk imagined rivals in their sleep, lap at their wounds with ferocious cunnilingus:

they'd wake at dawn in ruined sheets, the remnants of a torn life. You told me scraps about your past: descendent of your master's pets, the corpse you limped away from with eight of your nine lives left.

Paul McDonald