Work In Progress

Work in Progress


This work of mourning
is like the combing
of my cat’s long coat.

Beneath her halo of hair
lie layer upon layer
of felted armour.

I cannot touch her skin
or tell where it begins.
Cautiously, quiet times,

I go in , slow and gentle -
teasing out tangles
of the wadded weight

around the secret heart ,
holding at bay the hurt
and the long nightmare.

The new strands may be healed;
I comb before they weld
to what I keep in wraps-

that whole deep ugly bundle of dead thoughts.
I dream my losses through the endless nights
I comb my patient cat.

She rarely cries.