The grey-smoke twins are rewriting their script. Quokka no longer rears up with paws on the cupboard, meowing, trying to help me dish out his dinner more quickly, and
The new blocking has been evident for a while; the doctor confirmed that Quokka’s kidneys were probably failing. The bigger, darker of the twins showed less coordination in the catbox…a previously fastidious if uncovered practice. Now he spends much time playing the Sphynx in one of his two box-lids. In fact, the most Quokka says is a heavy purr while I stroke him. I carried him off to the back room to sit in the arm chair the other day, held him in my lap, talked to him and petted him. Further lap sessions were curtailed by Quokka, who insisted on being put down on the floor, where he wobbled gamely back to his box lid, or sat tummy to floor on the cool tiles.
Under the old book, the twins both joined us when we went up to bed. Quokka took his place on the bathroom rug. Aquila waited outside the bedroom door until Phil came up, then climbed the graduated boxes and chest to the bed itself, where she took her command post on the MIT sweatshirt square in Phil’s footspace. After a week of Quokka staying downstairs at night, he surprised me two mornings ago, lolling on the bathroom rug again.
But lately, Quokka has drowsed in his box lid, happy to have dinner brought to him, though not so interested really in the water or the milk. Though his tummy is full, his spine bony, and his spare haunches showing his bright white undercoat, he goes at his wet food with purpose.
But vocal Quokka has not said a word in a while, and I miss his voice.
Redolent,
meaning
and import
drench
every syllable,
chewed off
and
spat
or unctuously
caressing the mouth.
ritornello
nag
chorus
argument
Dripping
situations,
stinking of sweat,
muscling its meaning,
stringing my
tendencies
along,
resembling something
mother said,
once.
I hold my tongue,
evoke my father’s,
sister’s.
Pendulant,
words
hang
in
my
breath.
I turn, expecting
them to
be there,
lip-synching
my thoughts
to
you.
