Jayne Marek
Old cat, my little love, as you withdraw
along with the declining days in October
and fold yourself into slanting light,
you seem quiet and neat as rolled-up socks.
I wish you had no pain, but your stillness
protects its secrets. I can only guess
what your slitted eyes examine. At
the window, leaves perch like orange birds
with wings folded. I must slip across your vision
as a blur, an erasure of a patch of sun
on the floor. I can’t tell you that I understand
being close to the door that only opens once.
Language fails as it always has—yours to me,
mine to you. Only a body can convey
how shadows rise inside, a tide of aches
overfilling aches until the shoreline lets go.
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