I love my black cat,
though she is a thorough devil,
her tail the tip of a witch’s hat.
She whips up the scullery steps
and churns my nerves to butter.
She maddens the wrens with her
chatter, shreds terrible herbs;
mutters her spells on the sill
and magics a rat for her supper.
Her fur is the color of bones
charred by infernal flames.
Her ears are alive with the night
and her eyes are sorcery's shade.
I’ll swear she’s a necromancer.
One night, I fancy she slipped
from the crook of my knees
and rent my grandmother’s soul.
Some say I should put her away.
What truck do I have with the sprite?
Me, as gentle and good as the grain
and as fine as gossamer’s light.
If she is a demon, disaster would strike.
If she is a harbinger, where is my harm?
She’ll stay by sun and by candle’s beam,
and a fine portrait she’ll make.
I love my black cat.
It’s as simple as that.

(Inspired by Philippe Mercier’s A Girl Holding a Cat)