She was called April
and liked scratching human skin
with her front claws
if she felt they were being a bit much.
She caught my mate’s ankle on our driveway
after he was pogo-sticking too loudly
and my cousin’s finger
when he chased her around the sofa for too long.
I don’t remember her drawing my blood,
but the six million threads from the blanket
I wrapped around her entire body
one winter’s night still live under my fingernails.

© Carl Burkitt 2023