In this poem curls a cat. She comes and curls herself to rest
on a woven yellow rug at my feet each evening. To clarify,
this rug is in my home and this rug is in the bathroom and
this rug is near the toilet, which is where I sit and why she is

nearby, a smile on her face and her pink-padded paws tucked tight,
waiting. And it is midnight. Or an hour past. Or sometimes, two. Because
late at night is when the next day nudges its way into my mind, swirling
its fingers amongst my lists of what not to forget and what not to forget and
what not to forget and I would much rather stay put than make my way towards

the next day, which she knows and is why she tucks herself in like a reminder: there is more to
tomorrow than what you face alone in your mind. She is curled up on this yellow rug much
like how I settle myself on my side when I sleep and in her little exhales are poems
of presence and love and lingering and patience. And when I do decide to rise,

when I tear the fingers away from my whirling worries and consent to meeting the next day,
she stretches in turn. She sits. She waits. And she guides me into the bedroom with her tail aloft,
constantly checking behind as Orpheus wished to do with Eurydice but could not, lest he break his
promise and, through his own folly, permit her to disappear. She checks anyway.

Her breathy poems promise some kind of sleepy sweetness and bid me to bed as she leaves
the yellow rug behind and turns and checks and turns except, suddenly, when she turns around,
when I imagine her turning, it is not I who is gone but her. And I can’t help but feel that I didn’t
keep my end of the bargain.