To Cleo
October, 1994 - January, 1996
Mary Winters
I. Unmistakable
Fun to while away a morning at the office
interpreting each other's dreams.
Tumors through a dear pet's skin.
Grown from her bones like tree gnarls.
Deadly wood.
II. How Could She Scold Him?
The sweet cat dies,
the pal who slept on his bed.
The hugging, kissing talking cat
-- Mom cries too.
The din: the boy hollering,
slamming his door.
Death's a demon he's driving off.
Like a backwoods “primitive”
banging a pan with a spoon.
III. Embarassing
to gush like any other
nitwitted animal lover:
the cat who died not just a cat.
You compared het to Jesus Christ!
A weekend of sobbing --
when Dad died, it wasn'r so sad.
Embarassing: no lament without guilt?
When she wanted more stroking,
you called her a pest.
Without cruelty?
At the end, she was ugly:
“what would I want with a defective cat?”
