my favorite stick
by kenne bruno cellak

    when i was eleven
    me and three of my friends
    beat on a dead cat in the street
    with sticks and metal poles
    from fences.
    it was December,
    snow covering the pavement
    but not the cat-
    a black cat
    with a white belly
    and sections of its legs
    made brown.
    at the moments of impact
    a strange feeling of emptiness
    crawled up the stick
    and into my arms;
    it made me want to stop.
    the others continued.
    i watched
    and became angry with them,
    every blow to the cat
    resounded in my head
    and my skull felt rusty,
    about to crack.
    quiet squeals of air
    sneaked from the cat's mouth.
    they told me to go home.
    dropping my favorite stick,
    i walked away silently
    so the others would not hear me.
    i glanced back at them,
    but they did not see me go.

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