she took me to the far end
of the back yard
and showed me an untidy pile
of feathers.
"blackbird," she said.
"it's a blackbird."
I could see this.
there were feathers
spread around
just no bird as such.
there was blood
on the paving stone.
it congealed.
"my god," I said,
"what are those things,
there in the grass?"
"intestines."
"they look like worms."
I looked closer.
they did look like
little worms.
all that was left of the inside.
something had eaten well,
but it didn't like the look of the worms.
"its the worms," I told her,
"it's revenge."
"the cats,
the cats must have done it."
"they couldn't. They're lazy,
they're too slow.
they don't have the balls.
the bones have gone.
there's no head, eyes,
no beak.
they are too stupid to
know what to do,"
I answered.
I had liked the blackbirds.
they had calmed me.
one out front met me
every time I went outside.
I liked to watch him,
it was peaceful.
I hoped it wasn't him.
I hoped he hadn't left me.
I stepped into the house
still wondering
about the beak,
the head, the face.
I stepped over the cats,
turned
and looked back at them.
They sat there
eyes half closed
very quiet and still.
their claws
appeared
disappeared
in and out slowly
their eyes were upon me.
I watched them.
they looked serious
two hitmen
keeping
their mouths shut.
I turned back
and walked away
and, although
I have never
heard them speak
I thought I heard
one of them
say
under his breath
"next time, baby, next time."
I looked back.
they had gone.
my playful foot
stirs up the sand
muddies the water
now much polluted
I remark
it was not always this way
and my toes disappear
once this sun
held a hundred hours
now it only pours silent minutes
over a seamless
infinite blue
tongues of waves
lick my legs
as cool as a final breath
secrets remain.