2025 Commended poem: 'On bruising' by Zoe Price

 
On bruising

The cat is dead, but I keep the window open
at night, just in case any other stray pops through

to demand food with a yowl, claws out
and I would give in. Pretend to talk

to anyone but myself for once in this blue moon,
shining on vines that plague like fleas in their thousands.

Some ghost on silent paws manages to nose in,
happily eating from the damn bin. Gross, although

I would much rather join in that undertaking than
be joined by someone I know. Now that’s the kind of spirit

I’d want to be – a superstition lying and lazy,
belly bulging, full of leftover

rotting fruit. Under the solstice heat, I too perfume
the air with unapproachability. The kind

of pheromones I always want to produce smell like peril
and wilderness and something no one wants

to eat. I would cross everyone's paths, just to let
the unluckiness spill out of me. Then alone, I’d

wade into the night like it’s water. Polluted, I’d float
supine in the stagnant – bloated and ghastly.

There would be no one living but me. A superstition
surrounded by fruit flies nesting among the Durian trees.

That is what makes me such a clever animal; I’m
happy to live off dead things.

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Dead Cat Poetry Prize - winners and commendees, 2025

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Past undergrad student, Zoe Price specialises in writing about all things gross, shiny, and sexy. While she’s frequently found in bookstores, poetry slams and coffee shops pretending to do work, you can find her for free on Instagram.