A wild thing shall never be broken
This past summer you shot up a foot. Your colors turned from sable to grey and then a half-measure from black. Danny and I marveled and wondered, what had become of our little silver son? That fluffy beast we had plucked from the woods.
When you were little, you used to curl up in the space drawn between the arc of my arms and thighs, and the days slipped away as you kicked and whimpered through dreams.
Where had those rounded ears and too-long legs gone?
By this fall, your wildness overpowered our own suburban dream. Endless taunts from other children had set you off again. This time, you lashed out with claws.