to my homecat, R.I.P.

by Feng


The cat died and we buried it in the yard
and built a mound on top of it.
Now the orange fur’s dull luster
kicks in the mind
like an ultrasound.
We don’t know what it died of.
We wanted it to be a surprise.
The cat vomited magnificent trails
of muddy tears,
even the pink medicine came out.
So I went for a walk by myself
and walked to the hospital
which was four miles west
and watched the sky flirt and fan its array
of inconsistent feathers.
Then it was dark and I passed
some empty stables and the death trees continued
to raise up their spikes.
That isn’t where the dead lie.
If I were a tree I would be all trunk,
a wooden arch
with both ends in the ground.
The mound was small, but perfectly round.
We’re still looking for a stone and a seed,
the accessories of absence.
They are two of the same species,
the stone and the seed. Both full
of unintelligible force.
They do not question purpose. And I don’t try
to understand the whims of every apocalypse.
I’ve long known that some things refuse to go.
I don’t count the number of times
I have killed a man
in the wobbly field of inner sound and light
and I leave the door open now for his return.
The cat’s pain hooked onto my eyeballs
and pulled.
An ocean had entered it through the mouth
and wanted to return through the mouth.
I want to watch him die. I want the hooks in my body
ripped out.
Fate is arbitrary. A hardness forms nonetheless
of tough skin stitched like embroidery.
Something wants to come out of me
but it seems to have no body. It is like an entire country
of dim horses in mist.
The hooves clatter on and on.
I wanted to be there at the precise moment
but could not.


feng chen


image by =Dragarta