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FEBRUARY
Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

by Margaret Atwood


NOVEMBER

Autumn.  Time to wear scarves
and watch football. In the hazel mornings, the dog,
a white hairy mop with green
wizard eyes, tugs on my foot and tries
to take away my shoe. It's his way of
testing whether or not I'm blue.
If I'm not he wants to play catch; if I am
he'll dig up something. He jumps up
on my lap, panting his pant
of gulped-down chow and soggy ham-bone,
drooling like a toddler.  Some other fido,
not quite an alpha, has been dumping in our lawn,
stinking it up.  It's all about tricks and hierarchy,
which are what we all strive for
in the long run.  Some dog owners around here
should buy invisible fences.  If we bold
humans were practical, we'd do like they do,
or ditch our kids, like frogs.
But it's lust that brings us down.  Time and time
again. Touchdown! Six points! and disease
creeps out from the closet, attacking the breathing
corridor, and the hole in the ozone
stretches wider, and exhaust hails
out from the cars that keep us moving.
November, month of distrust,
with an open wound in the heart.
I think pained thoughts, and long for hot soup
with a slice of buttered bread.
Dog, enough of your whimpering bark
and your wet black sniffer.
Get outside! Your the young playful one,
so they say, now get started
with your exhilaration out there.
Get on with life. Entertain indulge. Bring on the snow.

by Bethany Morris