Devotion
One stone down from the porch I saw
a worn-out rag of woolen sock
become a rabbit all done in
and all undone inside its skin.
The joints were lax and rolled around
as loose as minnows in my hand.
My breath held off while my pulse ran on
stumbling a way to start again.
I cursed the cat his wretched gift —
was I his god to share his guilt?
Then, forgetting the vengeful flight
of swallows and the mice he might
have caught, I saw him as a child
making his new toy go, himself.
Wielding a power not quite cruel,
he rules the toy and yet is ruled
by love for its erratic wit,
its odd regularities,
until something in it sticks.
Impatient, now that it’s no trick,
he gives it a shove, quick, then slow.
It comes unstuck, but it won’t go.
He shakes it, bends it, pushes, pulls,
squeezes it to transmit his will,
and he sinks into the machine
to seek its secret gift of being.
At last he puts the broken toy
on the bench near Father’s tools.
As the cat lays his worn-out pet
where I won’t miss it;
if I don’t miss it,
maybe I’ll fix it.
The Worcester Review, Spring 1985