The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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All night she cried, shrill squalls under the porch.
Now she sits in my driveway, matted, slick, shiny.
She won’t stop yowling. Hungry and in heat.
Comes to the front door, paws at the screen.
I won’t give her a dish of milk or a scrap of chicken.
The day is hot, humid. I pace the small rooms
wearing only my briefs. I want to touch myself —
envy those who can give in, do it alone
and feel satisfied. I clean, smoke, scream at the cat.
But she won’t go away — not today. She jumps
to the living room windowsill, stares in, wailing —
will not leave, will not stop, goes on endlessly.