It is upsetting,

To read of Moreau’s experiments

while beside me, my white and gray cat

has curled herself into an oval,

snoring indelicately through her pink nose.

To think of her being hurt by human hands,

deliberately, like the puma—

dread and ire flare in my chest,

and as an antidote, I have to believe

that if Moreau stole her,

I would run across the ocean.

I would run across the ocean,

or at least commandeer a ship,

and speed to Noble’s Isle,

that fictional island where nothing noble happened.

Sea and sand and rocks and locks

could not stop me from storming the enclosure,

from snatching my cat back from that old man’s hands.

But what if I were too late?

Behind that gate might be a homunculus:

naked in her bright pink skin

with bovine spots,

balancing on two disjointed legs,

her paunch hanging,

her dainty paws stretched to lemur-like fingers,

tail gone, face flattened,

eyes with the imprint of pain.

Like Prendick,

I would shudder.

But then I would scoop up my misshapen Eponine

and raze the building more thoroughly

than any fallen oil lamp.

On the journey home,

what would we say—

me to her altered brain

and her with her altered larynx?

I could explain what money is,

and why I must leave the apartment each morning.

I could teach her how to read a clock,

and tell her that her breakfast is at seven,

so there should be no crying before then

(but I know she would ignore that).

What would she say to me

that she cannot say already?

She has no difficulty

voicing her complaints

or her joys.

As she is, every day

when I end my evening commute at our door,

she meets me and proclaims,

You are home! Now we will go

to the designated spot

and I will put my head on your knee

and you will scratch my chin

and pet me and pat me

and I will rub my face on your leg

and then you will lean down

and I will press my nose against your nose,

again and again and again.