I know a thing or two about cats,
and that scrawny black skeleton
with dirty socks, curled in an empty
flower pot on the front porch
was one fine haven for bugs
and stink. Ball of running sores,
why cling to our garden
for two weeks under threat
of animal control, then vanish?
Three days into my blissful relief
and new potted geranium,
the neighbor’s daughter,
best friend of our own,
knocked at the door, cradling
that sack of cat piss: child weeping,
cat dripping and reeking of kerosene.
“My mom’s at work and my dad
is in the shower, and I knew you
could help,” and I thought,
oh, you lucky man in the shower;
me with a house full of children
and a known oversized bathtub
at the top of the stairs.
I have resisted moments of truth–
sledding on thinly iced ponds;
candy from strangers; St. Patrick’s day
in sports bars—and I know how
to say no to destiny, but I said,
“Give me the cat and we’ll wash it.”
Kneeling by the tub,
where a tall woman can relax
in comfort, I reddened my hands
through twenty sloshing shampoos,
the last six with laundry detergent.
Five visiting children and two of my own
leaned over me, shouting advice,
falling onto my aching shoulders,
or into the tub. Fumes watered my eyes,
as I kneaded that paltry body
that never mewed, scrambled,
scratched, nor bit, but stood
in the frothing waves and took
whatever I sent her way—head above
water, eyes heavenward.
There is nothing more certain:
no one can wash a cat twenty times
in front of children, dry it, and watch
it eat a can of tuna intended for dinner
under a patch of late sun angling
through the kitchen door, reflecting
gold in the cat’s left eye,
without something turning over
in the soul, without the cat
revealing its true name.
(Published in The Geese at the Gates. By Drucilla Wall. Salmon Poetry 2011: https://www.salmonpoetry.com/details.php?ID=220&a=192)