when the cat came home

A poem.

Felix was always an outdoor cat.

he’d spend a week on the hunt in the woods,

licking from the bubbling Beaver Brook,

breaking birds down to their elements,

on the lawn or the doorstep & looming

above us all from the tree in front of the house.

then he’d come inside, curl up by the growling heat–

vent in the den & dream about fighting––

we could tell from the leg-thrusts & the growls.

only then would he tolerate our attention,

accepting ear scratches & belly rubs for

an hour or two––ah, but he loved our father––

before the cycle of violence, of neighborhood

dominance began anew. but at least

once before he’d go, he’d spend some time

resting between my feet at the foot of the bed

as I lay there, watching the windows

& the wind-stalked trees for ghosts or demons

or whatever specter haunted my dreams

that month. then one day Felix never came

home & we quietly accepted his conqueror:

a coyote, perhaps, sometimes seen stalking

the fields past the woods & brook. or maybe

he’d gone for one of the water moccasins,

thinking it was a garter snake for his amusement,

only to succumb to its poisonous chomp.

the family watched the street where he’d roll around

in the sand & waited for his return.

but I already knew that he was dead.

that first night, I woke from a terror

& then felt his rumbling weight

on my legs. I reached for him but felt nothing.

then I saw Felix’s great black bulk

slink by through the dark beside the bed.

he stopped to look up at me before moving on,

head straight, focused on some unseen prey.

I blinked & he was gone. months later, my mother

spilled two kittens out of a basket on the couch.

we gathered & watched them tumble against

one another, purring with new life. Felix watched us

from a photograph perched on the shelf.