We buried the cat today, in the corner
of the yard. No fanfare, just a sprig
of kangaroo paw and some lavender,
the hole barely big enough for a shoebox.
Shovel in hand, I felt the loose soil
spill into the grave, returned whence
it came. The cat, ragged incisors curved
over her lip, claws protruding nakedly
from yellowed paws, lay in the bottom
of the box. As a child, I woke often
to those claws on the window screen,
an electric racket followed by the sound
of feet dropping onto corrugated tin
like clumps of wet dough. In her eyes,
the whole world startled into peaks
of green and yellow, flame-ringed
and clear as if preserved under glass.
At the center, the pupils, two slits
impossibly black, orbs that widened
after the light. Strange, what death
throws into bright relief. How it reaches
into the present, cinches to a fist
without warning. I feel this way watching
my daughter play, face bent over a book
or brightly colored toy, the moment
already laced with nostalgia. Each day,
I forget. How she looked at birth,
folds of skin gathered in the creases
of her legs. We buried the cat today,
and now I’m in the nursery, soothing
the baby after she’s woken crying,
haunted by sleep. I cross the room with
long, slow steps. Her body grows still.
I lean over the crib, lower her gently
back to slumber, and linger, feeling
the moments as they pass. This life
we’re losing, even as we live it.