THE CAT’S YELP IN BLACK LIGHT

by Lyn Lifshin

Pine needles dripping,
covering cars deeper than
mist. My sister is pulled
toward what tore night
like a child in pain
to where the cat drags
one half of his body
thrashing and tangling
through legs of chairs
no light’s touched.
We wrapped his
writhing in flannel,
drove on winding roads
thru maple hills,
reaching toward noon.
Nothing to do but wait.
We were shaking, numb,
bought butter pecan
ice cream that dripped
down skin like tears.
Embolism. White pines
blackening. Next
morning the vet says
the cat died in the
night. A sack of clots,
a whole heart-full. My
sister doesn’t stop
clearing the table,
packs the car, it’s as
if the cat’s wet fur
and twitching have
moved inside her


*Lyn's website:
http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm