She was waiting
 oh, so proud
 cheshire grin
 and slitted eyes
 as she led me
 unsuspecting
 to her trophy,
 neatly laid
 on the kitchen mat,
 a young  turtledove,
 still warm,
 neck broken
 grains of wheat,
 not yet digested
 strewn around,
 amidst feathers
 and red blood.

 oh, kitty my love,
 it hurts my guts
 it hurts my soul
 and yet,
 diminutive tiger
 that you are
 humbly
 I sweep up
 the offering
 without a sound,

 saving
 the rising scream
 for the broken dove of peace
 over the Middle East.
 Can one there also say,
 it is the nature of the beast?