ALICE'S CAT. NEW
YEAR'S EVE 1990.
It began well didn't it, all
that euphoria
in Europe, but in the spring an old woman died.
Now a cat dwindles with the year,
an unnamed monster gnawing inside.
Pain is borne with dignity in
both cases.
The reek of faeces and urine
does not detract from this. Green eyes, luminous
with appeal, implore me to do what I can
which is not much. I change
soiled bedding,
speak comforting words I do not believe,
wash, brush, fluff out and powder
in a futile effort to deceive
myself. Never one for much
touching, now
she grasps my hands,
I was going to say,
as though her life depends
on it. One night I get into her
bed.
She is restless. I try to calm
her. She holds me and talks of Dad.
I am bad-tempered, as I always seem
when woken in the middle of the
night.
She understands. It is how I am.
When I touch my skeletal cat
he purrs though he can no longer stand
as if flesh will
dematerialise
at the approach of death,
leaving only those green burning eyes,
like Alice's cat, to disappear on a breath.
