From The Door, 2007. Houghton Mifflin (U.S.), McClelland & Stewart (Canada), Virago (U.K.)

Written in honour of Blackie, who lived till 15; posted in honour of Twitter correspondent @marleycat, who passed away last week.

BLACKIE IN ANTARCTICA

My sister phones long distance:

Blackie's been put down.

Incurable illness. Gauntness and suffering.

General heartbreak.

I thought you'd want to bury him,

she says, in tears.

So I wrapped him in red silk

and put him in the freezer.

Oh Blackie, named bluntly

and without artifice by small girls,

black cat leaping from roof to roof

in doll's bonnet and pinafore,

Oh sly fur-faced idol

who endured worship and mauling,

often without scratching,

Oh yowling moon-

addict, devious foundling,

neurotic astrologer

who predicted disaster

by then creating it,

Oh midnight-coloured

faithful companion of midnight,

Oh pillow hog,

with your breath of raw liver,

where are you now?

Beside the frozen hamburger

and chicken wings; a paradise

for carnivores. Lying in red silk

and state, like Pharoah

in a white metallic temple, or

a thin-boned antarctic

explorer in a gelid parka,

one who didn't make it; or

(let's face it) a package

of fish. I hope nobody

en route to dinner

unwraps you by mistake.

What an affront, to be equated

with meat! Cat-like, you hated

being ridiculous. You hungered

for justice, at set hours and in the form

of sliced beef stew

with gravy.

You wanted what

was coming to you.

(Death

is, though. Ridiculous. And coming to you.

For us, too.

Justice is what we'll turn into.

Then there's mercy.)

MOURNING FOR CATS

We get too sentimental

over dead animals.

We turn maudlin.

But only those with fur,

only those who look like us,

at least a little.

Those with big eyes,

eyes that face front.

Those with smallish noses

or modest beaks.

No one laments a spider.

Nor a crab.

Hookworms rate no wailing.

Fish neither.

Baby seals make the grade,

and dogs, and sometimes owls.

Cats almost always.

Do we think they are like dead children?

Do we think they are a part of us,

the animal soul

stashed somewhere near the heart,

fuzzy and trusting,

and vital and on the prowl,

and brutal towards other forms of life,

and happy most of the time,

and also stupid?

(Why almost always cats? Why do dead cats

call up such ludicrous tears?

Why such deep mourning?

Because we can no longer

see in the dark without them?

Because we're cold

without their fur? Because we've lost

our hidden second skin,

the one we'd change into

when we wanted to have fun,

when we wanted to kill things

without a second thought,

when we wanted to shed the dull grey weight

of being human? )

JANUARY

Crisp scent of white narcissus:

January, and full snow.

So cold the pipes freeze.

The front steps are slick and treacherous;

at night the house crackles.

You came in and out at will,

but this time of year you'd stay indoors,

plump in your undertaker's fur,

dreaming of sunlight,

dreaming of murdered sparrows,

black cat who's no longer there.

If only you could find your way

from the river of cold flowers,

the forest of nothing to eat,

back through the ice window,

back through the locked door of air.