Volume 10, 2010
Burying the Cat
B.A. St. Andrews
The cat died so dehydrated
it smelled fragrant as cut
straw. In her old Egyptian
shawl, she rolled all nine
thrilling lives rich as
potash in the loam, then
made the sad climb home to
comfort the children winding
around her legs like kittens
left behind. She found two
cards already written to
the cat (smeared with baby
tears and their best Crayola
black). They insisted that
she draw one, too. She’d seen
animal death a time or two
through adult, artistic eyes:
the luster off the feathers
of the pheasant with the floppy
neck, no bead of breath marring
the onyx bill of that rainbowed
bird. Painters in her circle
even have a word for it: life,
they called it, still-life.
From Learning From Renoir, Wells College Press, 2003
Return to Table of Contents, Volume 10, 2010.
