Posts Tagged ‘cat’



in the ring with lions,

right where she wants to be

this housecat

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One Curiosity




so unwillingly

the cat jumps out

of the Christmas tree

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When the cat ran away,

I noticed how she did not move

between the legs of the chairs,

how she did not yowl by her bowl

nor sit in the window. Everything

I saw was where she was not.

All day, I held it close,

her absence. All day,

I thought how she was not here.

Was it true?


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One the Day After




on my lap

the emptiness refuses to purr—

it is all that I hear


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One Lament




In the ragged purr of the cat

in my lap I hear all the sun

she has yet to curl into,

all the mice she has yet

to chase, all the days

we don’t have left.

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Without Making a Sound




The cat does not care that I’m meditating.

She cares that I am warm and seated and still.

I pretend that I am ignoring her and notice

when I pretend not to notice I am pretending.

She settles in my lap. I notice how

this act seems to involve the whole world.

All day, I consider how powerful an act

to touch someone. how even the sky leans in.


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It’s like the absence

where the cat used to come

and rub against your leg


and you had some hope

there was real affection,

perhaps she even favored you,


you were, after all,

the one who fed her—

no wonder she nuzzled your shins—


but that was before you tried

to pick her up and rub

her belly. Eager fool.


It was days before the cat

let herself be seen again,

though you set out cream,


though you promised loudly

not to pick her up.

God, just to feel her


rub against your leg.

That would be enough, you

tell yourself, but you


and the cat both know you’ll try

to pick her up again, your hands

desperate as a blank page.

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Well, it’s obvious who’s been meditating more,

me or my cat. I can’t remember the last time

I sat on this cushion. Organic cotton. Unbleached.

But the cat, well, apparently she is nearing nirvana.

Based on thick layer of gray and black hair,

she’s clearly sat here for hours, perhaps contemplating

nothing as I have often strived to do. Striving for nothing.

The paradox is not lost on me. The cushion, however,

has been essentially lost. Not once have I thought of it

in months, did not consider it at all as it quietly

waited there with its company of dust bunnies.

It seems content enough. I vacuum it off, but I do not sit,

oh no, there is much too much to do, like clean

the meditation cushion, top and bottom. Who

could possibly sit on a day such as this, the house

full of clutter and a cat box to empty, the yard

full of weeds, the day full of marvels

and swervings and oh, just look at that blue.

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This Morning

like a cat beside an empty
bowl, I look
at you

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For so long I’ve been telling myself
the same thing. Someday, I say,
as if Someday were a fat striped cat.
When I’m paying bills, Someday

comes to the legs of my chair
and tries to leap up into my lap. Someday
comes to sleep at night on my pillow
and purrs in my ear. Someday

hisses at the window when it’s dark
and she senses something’s there.
Someday always wants to be stroked,
except when she doesn’t. And when

I am lonely, distracted by clouds,
Someday curls into my side
and nuzzles my hand as if to say,
though I ignore her, I’m here.

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