(This poem is "heavier," more "sombre," than Bad Poetry usually is. Depressive readers, please go to my Substack and read the cute cat shadorma instead. Today's book review will be "light" in every sense, and goodhearted and fun, because I just discovered that Google has been using this blog as a primary link for a book I've not even reviewed yet--only mentioned--and that book deserves a full-length review.)
Years ago, when Dame Helen Mirren was cast as Death in a movie, some online poets wrote answers to the prompt "If Death were a woman, what would she be like?"
For example, Kim M. Russell, whose collected works I've been reading:
Up here near the Cat Sanctuary, it brought to mind memories of our long-gone Queen Cat Graybelle's kittens. Whether cats are resurrected in a "real" afterlife, who knows--but all of Graybelle's kittens left this world, unmistakably, as if they were going to be with someone they loved.
I thought it was cute to give all of them "gray" names, since they were gray cats, distinguishable by size and tails. I had not learned that if two cats' names begin with "Gray" I'll probably call both of them "Gray" for short and then I'll never know whether they really know their names. The male kitten was first called Grayham but, when his eyes opened, I told him (in front of somebody whose name was Alfred) that he was being so difficult I could almost mistake him for Alfred. Alfred thought that was funny, and after that the kitten was Little Alfie. Graylin was the biggest kitten, and took over the "mother" role, as best she could, after they lost their mother.
If I'd known then what I know now, the kittens might have survived. If the Young Grouch had known then what he knows now, Graybelle would have come home and reared them. But in a sweetly sad way, the kittens' last moment gave me hope for all of us wretched clueless humans. Wherever they went was clearly a Good Place, and at least one of them seemed to be saying that humans will be there.
All three of them had been so ill
they turned to Death as to a friend.
Alfie went first, and made it plain:
that Death looked motherly to him.
Death looked like Graybelle, a big Manx
mix cat, long blue-grey coat, stub tail,
almost the classic Persian face,
alarming size, and heart of gold.
Then Graylin went, and made it plain
that Death to her was Alfie, loved
and tended in a motherly way.
Then Grayce, who clearly would have been
my own Manx cat, bonded for life--
Grayce turned to meet Death with a look
of love and joy. She turned to me.
Death was a woman for young Grayce.
I was that woman, and young Grayce
put up her paws and begged a lift
from Death, and turned to kiss her face.
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