I.
Tongue and twang, needle-barbed, felted,
he presides. Need is a word he would never consider—
he allows your service. Curling at the edges of rooms,
all fringe and frolic, sneak and sass, he slinks.
His tail ticks his dreams—of moths, the sharp-
angled scent of the plant he loves to gnaw, a full bowl.
Grass-tickler, discover of hidey-holes, taut
as a nocked-arrow, twine-tense for the pluck-launch
bird-ward. Or flocked and puddled with abandon,
sopping sun. Slither and tine, he is lap-loller,
stretcher of time and tendon.
The smallest whisker-flick of sound vellicates his ears;
a familiar voice can talk them down. Everything
and nothing behind his stare, he’s there
and back again unlooked for, on his own terms.
II.
It’s spitting snow. I look towards the glass door
and find no solemn patient silhouette.
When I forced him into the carrier yesterday
for the leaden one-way trip to the vet, he struggled,
weakly, but made no sound. A dying cat
has no place in a poem. I will not
anthropomorphize his last hours. He was not
saying goodbye, nor “I forgive you,”
not reliving old memories. Hiding
under blankets, he wasn’t seeking
a dignified exit—he simply wanted us
to quit bothering him. I’m left
with my glaring human need to be needed.
The truth: he lived alone, occasionally
allowing us into his dreams. Unclear
which of us haunted the other.
