A Black Cat Among The Roses Poem by Zoe Guillory

She stalks. Calm. Patient. Bright green eyes.
She does not leave the rose bushes.
The soft pads of her paws are shredded
from day after day of pacing among the thorns.
Among the soft red petals that fall to their death
on the cool ground. Her bed is made of Death.
She no longer has whiskers. The malicious branches
of ignorant roses have stolen them;
as well as small patches of her silk fur.
And yet these branches are her protection.
Like an ugly mask.
Every night, just before I turn out the lights
until the morning, I lean out my window and check
on the lonely midnight cat.
I can hardly see her through the night.
And she is always there, either pacing or sleeping,
guarding my old country house as she is guarded
in turn by my rose garden.
Alone amidst the blood-stained flowers.
Until one night, she was gone.
Not between the woven branched and fallen petals.
Perhaps she had been able to hide in the inky air.
I went searching for her, armed only
with a lit candle. Bare feet. An old robe.
I dared not get too close to the roses for fear
of thorns in my feet. I observed them from against
the house. She was not there. I rounded the corner,
staring at the roses, and kicked something soft.
I lowered my candle.
The cat lay against the house. Blood dripped
from her mouth as her body had grown stiff.