Bones the Magnificent Cat

An orphan, bereft, like myself
you appeared--
a bag of bones, I said, feeding,
flourishing you.
Stroking your electric black fur,
holding your massive jaws line         
in my two palms
it seemed we understood each other.
A similar need to wander,
the orphan in us, I would say.

You kept a stealthy watch
in all the local backyards
prowling from one to the other,
a king in your private jungle.
Only winter’s incessant winds
drove you inside,
where you resided uneasily, waiting
for the right moment
to appear when you could disappear.

And in spring, you did just that:
disappeared, then
returning  fat and sassy,
a magnificent black leopard
self-chosen head of your kingdom
so well-dieted your discriminating black nose rendered haughty judgments
on all offers of food,
so well-dieted your name
became a misnomer.           

that is, until you reappeared
once again, bereft, on the back lawn
drained, dried, so aflame
that no miracle of medicine or love
could retrieve you.  
We buried you
wrapped in the day’s news
under the weeping willow tree
as we contemplated the earthworms
so fat and sassy.

Now I find again in attachment
the implicit loss of have,
as death clings to my fingertips
like phosphorous aglow in the dark.
 
Peace Dale/ Portsmouth
1981/2010

Lamentation

As tenderly
as I carried my babies
I carried your tools
out to the garage.
These daily reminders
of your absence
remained
where last collected--
abandoned, just as life
abandoned you.  

Your strong, broad,                  
but gentle hands
will touch them no more.
Your strong, broad              
but gentle hands
will touch me no more.  

The dark settles in,
​a winter dark
abrupt, gray, cold
You are not here, your hands
gray, cold, gone. 

Your strong, broad             
but gentle hands
were your true tools--
and they, they can touch me
no more.  

North Kingstown
May 1998