samiya javed \ winter 2014
The moon hangs low above the Mediterranean.
The stray cats play pretend and howl like werewolves.
Who knows what troubles them.
They dandle the carcasses from their mouths;
throw them out to Neptune like offerings.
The moon plucks them from the water;
plants them in the sky.
The cats await their rebirth;
anticipate fresh flesh to tear at.
It’s repulsive! you scream
and before you resume your bed-post assignments
the husband waiting with his stash of porn
the echo slaps against the waves
and comes back,
to lie at your feet;
Samiya Javed hails from the majestic land of Hindustan by the accident of birth, but she'd rather you call her a free-spirit. Her work has previously appeared in The Feminist Wire, Lituminati, Literary Yard and Wordweavers. She is a fierce advocate of caffeine, Charles Bukowski and wee-hour poetry sessions.