Something About Easter, Maybe
Joseph Young

I was writing a poem about the blue sky and wind in my window. How wayward the early spring can be, rain and wicked, the sun and the damnable changing sky. Isis wanted nothing of it. Her tail flicked into my computer screen, claws in my chest.

Until the mouse across the kitchen floor, sprite and gray.

I watched her scramble, crouch, pounce. She’s 19 but the mouse had no chance.

Get it, Isis, I cheered.

She danced about the house, its wavering tail in her mouth. She dropped it, battered it, clamped her teeth on its soft body. The mouse squealed—if that’s what it can be called in its last kicks of life—squealed or squeaked or cried.

Good work, Isis, I said, though then not so sure. Oh, Isis, I said, her proud cat ways.

I went back to my poem. I made the sun a little warmer, the wind-blown branches agents in their own right.

Isis jumped into my lap, tired. You’re old, I said. Nice job, cruel cat.

There was no more writing that day. The sun was headed down, thunder was in the east.

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