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Poem	It sometimes happens that the woman you meet and fall in love with is of that strange Transylvanian people with an affinity for cats. You take her to a restuarant, say, or a show, on an ordinary date, being attracted by the glitter in her slitty eyes and her catlike walk, and afterwards of course you take her in your arms and she turns into a black panther and bites you to death. Or perhaps you are saved in the nick of time and she is tormented by the knowledge of her tendency: That she daren't hug a man unless she wants to risk clawing him up. This puts you both in a difficult position-- panting lovers who are prevented from touching not by bars but by circumstance: You have terrible fights and say cruel things for having the hots does not give you a sweet temper. One night you are walking down a dark street And hear the pad-pad of a panther following you, but when you turn around there are only shadows, or perhaps one shadow too many. You approach, calling, "Who's there?" and it leaps on you. Luckily you have brought along your sword and you stab it to death. And before your eyes it turns into the woman you love, her breast impaled on your sword, her mouth dribbling blood saying she loved you but couldn't help her tendency. So death released her from the curse at last, and you knew from the angelic smile on her dead face that in spite of a life the devil owned, love had won, and heaven pardoned her.
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