They have a million silences to choose
from, grown from inner wildness and
outer tameness, or vice versa:
so communication daunts
novices. But when a cat wants
something particular,
he’ll use
a dialect. My cat—mews.
After he laps his milk
he licks his fur
turning his inner forepaws
back to silk.
Then, when desiring nothing, he will purr,
the inner calm
filling the room with sound as incense laces it with scent.
Though animal,
in his caprice
there’s cause:
he’s not entirely ignorant
of moods. Like a sudden squirt of balm
he plops on a needy lap
(his weight is a surprise
as herbal cream is cool,
at first). But then he spreads and casts a nap—
his purrs’ Tibetan rhythms hypnotize—
as if he knew I needed a spell of peace.
The opalescent eyes’
almond form
frames an in-lit mystery,
the hallmark of the species’ history.
Behind, something cold as an ancient god
in a trice turns into a friend and warm
while seemingly staying as wild, and as wise.
I waken soon more balanced, as if I
had fallen likewise from a tempting tree
and also had a tail. He looks at me
and leaks a certain dulcet rumbling sound,
with those Buddha eyes again dilating
betraying nothing
while implying everything—
or is it the other way around?
Then on a whim,
suddenly knowing I’m no longer needing him,
he’s off, like wind, to caress everyone.
I think he heard my neighbor’s pre-school son
who adores the cat—
for rougher, wilder reasons,
both being resilient, prehensile, and
able to adapt to souls and seasons
like that.
They rassle on the grass. Then, as if to understand
like me, the boy’s eyes fix upon the almond eyes,
expecting perfection, open to surprise.
A True Chili alum, James B. Nicola’s latest full-length poetry collections are Out of Nothing: Poems of Art and Artists (2018) and Quickening: Poems from Before and Beyond (2019). His nonfiction book Playing the Audience won a Choice award. He hosts the Writers’ Roundtable at Manhattan’s Columbus Library: walk-ins welcome.