The Cat Poems by Cy Mathews

A man with a cat for a head.

It sits on his shoulders, in the space where his neck should be.

Now it is getting up, and walking across to the window.

There is absolutely nothing outside. Nothing but air . . .

Seated on the windowsill, the man’s head begins to wash itself.

The man sits, in his chair, in the dark, at the very back of the room.

*

A man with a cat for a hand.

It sits on the arm of his chair, just next to his shirt’s open cuff.

He thinks to his hand: hand, go now and get me a cigarette to bring to my mouth.

His hand looks at him. It narrows its eyes and smiles.

Later that day, it delivers to his face a half-eaten bird.

*

A man with a cat for a body.

It sleeps in the middle of his bed, at the junction of his arms and legs and head and sex.

The man keeps very quiet and still, for fear that his body will wake up and go somewhere without him.

He does not want to be left, his arms and legs and head and sex isolated, little bits of a crab left on a beach by a gull.

His body twitches in its sleep. It is chasing something through a dream.

The man lies on his bed, in the dark, in the very heart of the room.