Burying the Cat
It’s rough digging, the roots and rocks halt
the spade, and I’m reminded of the “joke”
the nosy old neighbor told me oh now three times
(“See now that’s why they call it West Rocks-bury!”).
Her husband, but blind bones now, told her that.
In a cardboard box beside us stuffed with
grave goods (toys, her food box) she stiffens and
we feel sad and silly, adults mourning a cat.
A cliché, the torrent makes November
that much colder and the squelch that much
louder. These dumb rocks—rocks I toss
among the dying grass only to bury
again, like a dragon hoarding gold, rocks
that as a child I’d gather in July
to blind some giant pond; or if it still could see,
make its pupil dilate, scatter all the dark.
About the Poet
Andrew Szilvasy teaches British Literature outside of Boston and lives in the city with his wife and two cats. He earned his MA in English Lit at Boston College. Aside from writing, reading and teaching, Andrew spends his time hiking and brewing beer.