My Family Fostered
​​Ewen Glass

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The boy who killed the kittens was cute. His face was open, ceramic pale, freckled. He knew what to say sometimes; other times he would light matches under his bed like the troubled kid in a Nineties thriller. Twenty years later, I google him and find a series of local news stories. As an adult, he was charged with dangerous driving, then contempt of court then– We had to wrap him in his own BraveStarr duvet to stop him from hurting us. As a teenager I held his legs, my Mum his top half. Eventually he'd sweat it out and I could go back to my room and lock my door. I’m relieved not to find anything worse online, but I want to see his face so I look him up on Facebook. He seems to change his profile pic a lot. Still good-looking. And then I see the banner photo– our cat Pepper had a small litter and he killed most of them. No kick, no spasm of anger, Mum found him staring into one's eyes as he strangled it. She took the remaining kittens to the vet and I was left at home, listening to him bang about in his room like he’d been wronged. Now I look at his proud smile in the photo. I look at his arm draped lovingly around a chocolate Labrador’s neck. And I’m worried for it. And him. And me. 
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Maybe he’s just not a cat person.

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Ewen Glass (he/him) is a Northern Irish poet who lives in England with two dogs, a tortoise and lots of self-doubt; on a given day, any or all of these can be snapping at his heels. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Bridge Eight, Poetry Scotland, Maudlin House and elsewhere. On socials (and in real life) he is pretty much ewenglass everywhere.

Social Media
Instagram: @ewenglass
Twitter: @ewenglass