Mary Kille

Throwing Cats From Skyscrapers

Throwing cats from skyscrapers,

scientists conclusively proved

the seventh floor the most predictably lethal;

the cat most tense, braced for the shock,

the impact most severe,

with shattered bones and brains and claws,

the comic-cartoon flattened cat.

Anachronistic findings clearly showed

that gentler landings often were achieved

with increased elevation.

At twenty, thirty storeys, there was ample time

for relaxation, twisting, turning, pirouettes,

balletic body, head and limbs,

assumed an airy grace and ease.

Perhaps there even was some joy:

The cats could fall as soft as snowflakes,

or as lovers onto feather beds.

Of course, we were assured,

the calculations were entirely based

on simulated cat trajectories;

there was no blood,

no actual broken bones or flying fur.

Were I a cat, in youth, I’d fall so hard

anticipating death as something to be fought,

such pain, such tension and such noise,

such fighting all the way

towards annihilation.

But, nine lives on,

I’ll come to terms with time,

and savour ease and treasure tenderness,

and bid my love lie easy and accept

the gifts of grace and gentleness.

Perhaps I will not “rage against the

dying of the light”,

perhaps I will “go gentle into that dark night”,

perhaps I’ll welcome death.

© Mary Kille

Errors occurred in this poem

printed in the April 2012 gazette.