The Cat and the Cat’s Madness
Be like the cat
in the dark
at the foot of the bed —
his muscle memory for milk.
He presses his paws into the fuzz blanket.
He offers no lesson.
He misses his mother
but couldn’t name her,
couldn’t post a greeting card to her,
couldn’t identify her body at a morgue,
but in his head,
what passes for his head,
a dim feel of her swollen breasts remains,
and the knowledge of pleasure remains,
the tongue laced with milk,
the teeth bathed in milk,
the fullness of a fed belly.
Every soft thing is his mother.
He kneads, and he kneads, and he kneads,
and his eyes go vacant. He looks at things
as if there is too much to parse.