I urged you.
behemoth hands to your frame,
small and full of bugs.
They were a test to us.
Everyday intelligent bacteria
reign over the ending–
yet create lovely spindles of joy,
flowers in the garden and the grass you eat.
I worried you would die
and that our long trips up the
mountains would never see us through.
We can head over the Catskills
and try to drag the demons
out of your most prominent ribs
but the journey won’t end there.
You can’t speak to me–
I can’t speak to you.
I just cry out when you’re missing,
what if you did lurk down the foxglen streets instead of
hiding under torn mattresses?
No, you woke alone, trying to tell me the ending drew near.
I couldn’t hear you over the tires
on the highway and the rattle of
You survived off dog food remnants
and drool mixed with a little water
while my heart tore open.
On anyday, you run at me after
downward facing dog and remind me
who is the best at stretching and sleeping,
who is the best at spotting squirrels.
You remind me who is always going to curl at my feet
or in my lap after a long day.
And I feel the meat on your bones
and I sleep.
You’re still here.
August 20, 2015 at 6:57 pm
This cat lover-poet is crying.
August 21, 2015 at 8:09 am
Thank you so much for writing, Jonathan. I appreciate your love for cats and poetry and look forward to reading your blog, too!
LikeLiked by 1 person
August 20, 2015 at 6:58 pm
Reblogged this on By the Mighty Mumford and commented:
From Baalim Yalson…to Tippy Cat…I know where and what this piece means! GOOD JOB!