Alison Brackenbury Poet and Cat Lover

The second jab

Never have I kept such a wild kitten,
One of eight, born in a tiny house
With carpet rolls and sun, she spun, then hissed
As paper bags go down, at slightest touch.
Then she grew milder, clawed along my skirt
Fell spilled across my arm, asleep, like water,
Floated, as we swim, unborn or dead.

I found her in the wake of several deaths
Just as the sunlight sharpened to the cold
Though trees refused to turn. Can kindness kill?
She had injections that her first poor owner
Could not have paid for, drugs to keep her well.
Now when I pick her up she strikes at me,
Fills the warm rooms with one long keen of pain.

I crouch, in soft skirts, dressed for my London trip,
To laugh with friends. Go. I will cope, you say.
Surely she will not die? Will she be whole,
Fly up stairs, a brindled deer, air’s child,
Or calm, doze without heat in rugs’ deep fur?

I do not know. Day drops me through its skin
To the dark place. I climb up coach steps, smile.
How love can tear, and binds us to the wild,
A useless name. Shadow, I say. Oh Shadow.

Alison Brackenbury

P.S. Shadow did recover - very quickly.


Since Saturday night

Lost for four days to the bramble and gun,
The tortoiseshell cat from the muddled farm
Was called for hours, dogs sent to run

Each dripping hedge, down tractor ruts, to find
Nothing. They slept. The summer storm bowed trees.
The cat was thin and wholly blind.

The main road raced. I swung to the steep lane.
Upright on its crest, a shadow hung.
Rough amber fur blazed evening sun.

“Sally!” I called. The farm cats, hunters, lean,
Kept wisps of pretty names. She turned her head.
The blind eyes spilled their bottomless lit green.

She cried her cracked meow. I scooped her up.
She clambered boxes, swaying, in my car,
Drank coffee milk from a cracked cup

On the yard’s stones. Her owner screeched the brakes.
“How did she stand those storms?” Dogs kissed her nose.
Moist food, dry bed. Would she escape

To the warm roads, the blinding lands,
To dark we scent, dodge wheels until
The call, the name, the swoop of hands?

Alison Brackenbury

P.S. You can read more of Alison's cat poems on her website:

www.alisonbrackenbury.co.uk

or at her cat page, which also has pictures of her cats,

www.myspace.com/shadowthepoetrycat
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