the cat's brought in by a nurse
borne high, raised in the air
like royalty
draped in a deep red knit shawl,
bedded on a blanket
produced from the corner of a pristine lab
nasa for the insides of dogs
blinking ultrasounds; shining chrome; white plastic;
rows of screens, and rolling devices
and somewhere in that, a pile of old blankets
for the king.
He's placed with ceremony on a steel slab
looks around weakly, panting
the nurse has learned eye contact
and offers "all the time you need"
but if he could "give more time" -
well, it's a cruel joke, if not meant to be
it's a very small body under the fur.
so where the catheter and tape are wrapped
the leg's too tiny, doesn't fit the whole
the vet on call is shaking,
she's put down two of her own this year
she apologizes often, to us, and to the patient
and explains like "Naming of Parts"
"this is to flush the catheter"
"and it will be quick"
"and he may stretch"
japonica in the spring and cock the rifles
he'll be gone,
unless we stop her pressing a plunger.
well.
it's been fifteen years
of yellow eyes engaging, disengaging,
meeting mine, or studying walls
intensely
which seemed to me uninteresting
those animals we sometimes see, meat by the road
they weren't ours
we have not seen the world with them.
It's practice for our own mortality
or we're practicing all the time
and maybe the cat says fuck you
cause he's not practicing anything
but mostly he's grey, like the vet's two cats
and mostly he's panting
until all at once he relaxes.
There's a lot of joking
held back for the sake of strangers.
A claw catches as I lift the limp body, on that strange regal cowl of a shawl
in life he never could manage his claws
and would catch
and plead to be released from
screens, and carpets. sofas. skin.
"help".
I spoke for him often.
gave him a deep, curt voice, that said things so matter of fact.
and as the needle goes in the catheter, full of milky fluid, and the poor vet
allows herself to act - to proceed
I hear him say
"what's that thing do?"
but I don't voice it
for her sake.
Of course he's been dead for verses now
but we replay things.
trying to find what we've let go
most of my writing is moments of wish
ing back
shoveling dirt in the height of a hot day
sweating
all the emotion is lost
muscles engaged elsewhere
lift, turn, lever, push
perhaps I'll plant a tree
I know one, still small nearby, that may be movable.
Announcing the moment
is an action
like brushing one's teeth when one would rather not
"friends"
with whom I never speak
now know.
the dirty secret of mourning
is life - everyone knows it -
elephant at the cocktail party, trying to look prim
of course we see our lives still pass
still want another bite of lunch
even when our loves have left us at the altar
those deaths sting like wasps
the living leaving us
keep leaving daily
bees sting once, drop the stinger, have done
when the dead are buried, really we've let them go
pat myself on the back, for letting go.
instead of snarling.
"you weak so and so - go try again.
we're so strong
when we dig a grave
spoon dirt over it
leave rocks
tell stories... drink. oppressed,
by time, who leaves us standing, when we say we'd go.
but the living give us chances
to go first
we cower - or are you not like me?
I cower, then. the water's cold...
so after all, I'll live.
he slept like the dead, so often, I observed
teeth bared
paw in the air
curled oddly
here he is with no heart
and of course all those times
I was correct to say so.
when I have no heart
someone will bury me
and who might look for me in my old bed? you'll be looked for - not by me,
but:
someone will stand by; affect a funny voice, to mimic mine.
"Why didn't you come to my funeral"?
Didn't he always sound that way? Wondering why people had gone?
He couldn't stay present - accept what he had. Wanted someone new
or old
or happier days.
he was a funny sort of cat
