burials.

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