Sep 13, 2006 16:39
Negative Space,
for pets dead in a housefire
The floor is inscribed with charred lines of force,
and ink-black ashes of assumed safety.
A void. The outline of a cat,
once prone to headbutting people while they drank,
and warm across the feet.
Now ashes, a body light as charcoal,
carried off to decent burial,
and yet the sillouette remains,
negative space, an absence of soot.
Her tail fluffy and curling down,
the prick-ears evident, sprawled on her side.
Cat in shadow.
We almost forget the loss,
after the first flames and sodden grief
have mellowed into grim acceptance.
At night, we are wakened by the silence,
and during the day, we lift our feet high
to step over pets that are not in our way,
and make the bed without interference.
Speak their names quietly, not shouting
No!
poem,
100,
grief