A Heterochromatic Minnaloushe

The moon rose late last night,

a top that spins odd-eyed with the sun, still,

light spread, the mottled canvas of 

the sky cried to the Poughkeepsie alley-cat.

Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth to

the grass between the sidewalk and the street.

Feet pattered, with the mouse corpse in her mouth,

she danced up the fire-escape. Dappled fur,

a fashion that mimicked the moon, 

blurred with the turn of the dance on rusted iron,

against brick, to the silver place, to the golden place.

The change of phase always on her face,

and as her diligent pupils scoured the rooftop,

and as she offered the corpse to her crescent mother, 

her eyes spun like tops, the most important cat (to the moon at least).