portrait of my father

first, grief. then
the eyes, the weight

beneath them, beyond them.
the shoulders slouch

as though the earth wants to reclaim
them, pull them closer to its lips.

slow heart beat.
when i was young, i stood on his feet

to dance a slow circle
through the kitchen.

the hands, bearlike, in mine.

.paper.island.

Have you ever noticed a cat's tendency to locate the one patch of texture on the ground that differs from its surroundings, and inevitably lay on it? Sometimes a jacket, sometimes a bag. Those would make some degree of sense, the sake of comfort being considered. I would probably want to lie down on a big parka myself, given the choice between that and concrete.

But I have seen cats snoozing on nothing more than a sheet of paper, as if they wanted their dreams to be burned into narrative.
Perhaps it is as simple as every cat fancying itself a sleek predator, master of its own island.
No flashing mirrors.
No bonfires.
No inanimate sidekicks.
Just claws and hair, and the knowledge that in the figure and ground, one needs a bit of water to make an island.