Pitty Sing
Katharyn Howd Machan
“I can fancy a character like the Misfit being
redeemable....”—Flannery O’Connor, in a
letter to John Hawkes, 13 September 1959
When she closed me into the basket
and hid me in the car
I was hers completely.
All along the country roads
I heard the grandchildren whine and grunt,
the only son snarl hotly at the wheel.
The daughter-in-law, that pale intruder,
offered a faint stench of roses.
But all of them were of no consequence.
She was the only one who gave me
fish and cream, and the sinful herb
stuffed into tiny bags she stitched with ribbons.
We were as one; our silent cunning
triumphed over the rest.
But that ride went on too long.
I grew cramped and thirsty,
and when her feet moved I broke loose,
needing more than our conspirators’ pact.
A long dry yowl, claws to the neck,
and the driver flipped us into a ditch
miles from safe civilization.
She, traitor, cowered beneath the dash
as he threw me out against a tree,
poor kitty that meant no harm,
Grandma’s defenseless companion.
I went boneless, limp in the grass,
waiting to feel her arms rescue me,
to be consoled against her willing bosom.
As always, together, we would triumph again.
It was then the men with guns came
and took the others to the woods.
I heard her question the one who stayed,
whose eyes burned answers in the air.
Jealously I watched her reach for him
as she’d never reached for me before.
Then she lay still, blood in the dust,
and the strange-eyed one stared at his gun.
What could I do? I need fish and cream.
I cut my losses, carefully moved
through the heavy heat of that afternoon,
willing now to be his completely,
to grace his ankles with perfect fur,
purring, purring, purring blithely
for our mutual redemption.
