Found in Willow Springs 69
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He Was a Hell of a Cat
It was a hell of a fish
throaty with a mouth wide
as a mason jar.
He was a hell of a cat
wailing with a tail twisted
and full as time.
You remember how it was
those last days in July
beside the milk pod field where
sandhill cranes walked against
the sun, filed across the grass
as if checking for landmines
while we fried the fish and tossed
the cat because he was young
like us and he knew
how to find his way
back. He slid low against
the scented thyme, a patch
of white fur that flickered
like moonlight on a
troubled lake. You said, One day
this will all be as if it never
were, you with me,
the cranes surging across
the field, their wildness in their throats,
the fish tender in our mouths,
and that cat arcing against the sky.
That cat we would take with us
for years, until yesterday when
we put him down, his tail dirty and limp,
mouth open and gasping. His
head in your hands, his feet in mine,
we held him for the needle.
I said, That summer we were
so in love. Then the cat went
still and you put your mouth to mine.
