This all started when Tanya, that wreck of a billionaire
everybody loves on HBO, muttered to herself, Girl,you got this,
then stepped from the dark yacht to her watery death.
That same evening, our cat appeared to jump from the window,
but no, she’d flown. When she flew back, she brought a never-
before-seen tabby along with her, a new friend. Was this the end
of the episode? Apparently not: for this week’s potluck,
guests were asked to bring a body part, but the severed head
I held wouldn’t stop bleeding, despite its lack of a circulatory
system, maybe due to the metal spikes in its teeth, as though
it had been half-way through the hell of dental implants
and simply decided enough was enough. Anyway,
I ran it under the tap until it was fit to travel. Poor Tanya’s
been dead for a week. Three soccer journalists covering
the World Cup also perished in the meantime, though their families
insist there was nothing nefarious. That’s as much as I can
say at this point. The cats are sleeping in my lap,
two soft commas. How quickly they’ve learned to arrange
their new wings before settling down to rest.
You got this, girls, I whisper to their curled forms.
Let’s call it the season’s finale, shall we?