Was not himself this morning
came in with one blown pupil
he’s had his moments
with dog attacks
and now and then
the odd car incident
He came into my arms for a soft reassurance
sat
purred
trying out that new shiny disc
while I fed him chunks of the Christmas ham
to see if he could swallow
His old age
catching him from the inside out
turns his head wonderingly
to the light
assessing the new angles
for sink-jumping.
I prepare myself
for my day in the tattoo chair
where my story's inked into my skin
ten thousand circles, smaller than a pin
each figure grows clear
blooms with colour
bleeds.
oh, what a great portrait of your old cat, and the way it is then inscribed in your body/poem, Kerri
ReplyDeleteSuch a good poem, Kerri. So much happening. The cat's mortality, the dreams' mortality, the tattoo chair (which is brilliant, which I think of as not really being in a tattoo studio), and your very level gaze.
ReplyDeletelove cats and love this poem, Kerri
ReplyDeleteVivid portraits very moving
ReplyDelete