The core of the situation is this: He helped us.

I will carry for you
the throes and triumphs of that year;
the wretched and wonderful nature of both
too knotty to note for a child.

But Cat is for you to treasure;
the night we brought him home,
how he slept at your feet and leapt to your lap,
batted your toys around the room.
The collage on the wall holds the photos you took:
Cat stretched on the bed, napping.
Cat spread on the floor, slothing.
Cat coiled in the chair like a caterpillar, orange.
Cat at his dish, lapping.

(Cat in a box in the corner of the yard.
Cat in a heap on the shoulder of the road.)

Furry nexus of our altered life—
he helped us. When static
swirled about our heads and bedlam
threatened bearings, he gave to us
simplicity.

He prompted our poems, the titles for always,
always the titles were “Cat.”
Your school work inspired, your stories of Cat,
each Mother’s Day card referencing Cat:
Thank you Mom! For giving me Cat!

Cat in a box in the corner of the yard.
Cat in a heap on the shoulder of the road.
Cat in your lap on the papazan chair.
(Understanding moves backward.)


Listen:
In the woods behind our house there’s a light shining bright,
shimmery orange like the color of Cat.
The light beams the trees and the trees grow their leaves,
the leaves on the branches which buoy the birds,
the birds in the sky how they fly through the light,
they sing as they fly as they soar through the light,
Cat in the light in the woods over there,
Cat in your eyes, in your hands, in your hair,
Cat in the light, in the night, in the noon.

Cat in the birds.
Cat in the moon.

Cat in you.

05/27/2011

Author's Note: :*(

Posted on 05/28/2011
Copyright © 2024 Ariane Scott