38. the luxury of sadness

38. the luxury of sadness

my stoic wife is weeping
about our dead calico.
mauled by the neighbor
dog it dragged itself
up the steps onto the porch.
how old was she I ask.
nine amanda says.
we found her when
I was pregnant with Lu.

(amanda was crouched
as though holding a basket

wiggling her fingers

enticing something
from beneath the shed)

I return to my old superstitions
and wonder about cause and effect
as it relates to bubka the calico cat:
she almost hung herself dead in
a closet and was saved by
by the length of her dew claw--
that was in the room that's now lu's.

I think of curses
then reject them.
stories of orphans and
blunt stupid demons.

there's hope for the
coincidence of proximity
followed by an impulse to
name the most inconsequential
and least travelled bridge.

she was found near the garden
I explain uselessly to lucia

as heart shaped
tomatoes tumbled from
vine to palm.

#weeklypoemandpic