For Cricket, July 1996—February 2017.
“And all their echoes mourn.” – Lycidas by John Milton
I woke with Lycidas on my tongue, and I should have known.
My prayers for my ailing cat and empty womb had become twined
together, his dark fur falling to shadow as the months passed.
In my dream, I had stuttered the name, given it to my newborn, its body
turning to vapor as I stirred. The weekend we read Milton, that elegy
was waiting for me, my cat tottering as he moved toward his bowl
and then, his aching stillness, his labored breaths in my arms. I swaddled him
in linen when he passed, held him to my chest, and went out into the still morning.
My prayers for my ailing cat and empty womb had become twined
