Some men don’t hate marriage,
or slavery for that matter.
Nor can they ever own enough land.

When I was a girl back on the farm
I surprised a wild tomcat in the hayloft.
He was eating a kitten,

its eyes still shut tight
like apple buds.  The shutter clicked
as he looked at me, his expression fixed.

I still think he knew what he was doing, 
though not why,
which makes him almost human,

or makes us almost feline.
I could hear the other kittens 
mewing softly 

somewhere in the hay, 
deep in the hidden nest
established by our cat

when she felt them coming.
How many did he take, I wondered,
and how can I punish him?