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 |