for Titus

On the Cremation of a Cat


I think of the fire touching you as a sister might with her warm
tongue.
I think of the fire at the small bones and the lithe spine
and the simple heart where steadfast simple love is begun,
touching it into flame and burning air, what was mine
become a coruscation, and illumination, and then done.
In life you loved four walls against your midnight flanks,
a box, a cupboard, the angle between chairs.
I choke back embarrassing emotions to give thanks
in the patient ear of anyone who cares,
for the black paws in the velvet darkness, then,
for the crouch, the tremble, for the coal black flash,
for the purr and cuddle famous among men.
For this compact, well-made box of ash.
It’s not that I never said this to you flat furred face:
it was a laugh, a smile, an honor; it was twelve years of grace.