Sestina for My Cat

I remember seeing my cat,
his eyes were taken up with black
pupils on the day of his death.
I went home to lie in my bed,
trying not to think of the sex
he never had. Never because alive

is better to a cat than bringing forth life.
At least that's what we say to ourselves, to the cat.
But is it really so important--sex?
It makes the eyes become all black,
which shows emotional interest. A bed
surely has better things to hold than death.

Did my cat enjoy his death?
Is that why his pupils were larger than in life?
And what about the bag, ground, bed?
A good final place for our cat?
Sweet, sweet honey, never hurt a soul, his pupils black,
even though he never had sex.

Why do I have to think about sex
every day, more often even than death?
Sometimes it causes depression, black,
blacker than the light of being alive.
Maybe I should just be a good cat
and go home to my bed.

But when I get home to my bed,
will I start thinking about sex
when I should be thinking about my cat?
My cat after all who is dead,
much worse than being alive.
When I die will my eyes be black?

I'll wrap myself up in the blackness
as I lie at night in my bed,
and be happy that I am alive.
I won't even think about sex.
Instead I'll concentrate on death.
I'll pray instead for my cat.

I'll think black thoughts about sex
in my bed that leads to death,
because I'm more alive than my cat.

© Julianne Carlile

1994

The Voyage

Sometimes I wonder about others

when I am on a voyage,

thinking to myself in the silence.

Where do I have to go, how far away,

to lose this incredible burden:

my talent for doing so much harm.

It is not only that I do harm,

but through my neglect the others

shoulder my terrible burden

and go off on their own voyage.

They go their own way, they go my way,

and I am left alone in the silence.

What happens to them in the silence?

They pass ahead into time; is it harm?

Why do I think any way they go is my way?

They are complete minds—they are others.

Yet, we all make the same voyage,

and to be separate is a great burden.

Not to see you as me is a burden,

a painful wall of immense silence

that causes us to go alone on our voyage.

On the other hand, harm

can also be seen in seeing others

exactly as myself. I want my way.

This is why I run or walk away

with my sack, my mysterious burden

which I hide from all the others.

Do you think they know in the silence

that I almost wish to do them harm,

that I am jealous of their voyage?

Do we protect others on their voyage

by making them believe they own their way?

Or could it be that we’re doing harm,

causing them to carry their burden

through an eternity of silence--

a silence that leads each of us to be an other.

On my voyage I’ll remember a burden

that took me away in the silence,

where my harm is equal to others’.

© Julianne Carlile 

1994

You Go On

You go on, not remembering,

or else don’t care, which is the same,

and I think on the lovely ring

you took back, worn by what’s her name.

Nature consoles me; it has heart,

a heart I did not find in you.

Nature will not leave me apart.

Nature, in fact, is just and true.

The shorn grass falls out in my wake,

the swallows follow on my way,

I resolve to make a mistake.

Before I see the boy, I say,

"I love you," and your voice or God’s,

on the summer wind answers, nods.

© Julianne Carlile

Dog Psalm

Psalm 9 (album) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As the puppy cries for the mother he will never see again,

So cries my soul for You, Oh God.

As he searches among the blankets for her nipple to suckle,

So search I for You, Oh my Lord

As he resolves to make a home among people not his kind,

So I resolve to make a home among people lost from You.

© Julianne Carlile

Star-Crossed

I would often ask you for the stories

of how I ended up here

and you would tell me:

I met your grandfather when

he came to work for my parents.

He was a really sharp dresser.

Then you would laugh.

I wondered if you knew what you were really

telling me:

That grandpa had been given used clothes

by your lover, a man you were enamored with

and at first, at the play,

you thought grandpa was him.

(His scent permeated the room;

you could feel him—his essence,

like a star beam covered in gold dust.

But then when you looked,

you saw it was grandpa.)

It must have been really funny,

but what’s really funny is that’s why

I’m here.

© Julianne Carlile

Sonnet for Nicky

Long-haired Chihuahua (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

He has a head like a little flower,

A ruff like a lion around his neck;

All day long he dreams of having power—

If he has to charge someone, what the heck?

I really think he likes to dream of life,

What it would be like to be on his own,

To be in charge and to have his own wife—

Especially when I get on the phone.

But it is easier to live with me,

To not worry where his next meal comes from.

I feel for him then, the poor little bee—

The turmoil he feels when I tell him come.

So I live with him and he lives with me,

And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

© Julianne Carlile

Ode to a Dog

Happy the person with a dog,

companion of the first degree.

Awake or sleeping like a log,

                they’re fun to see.

Waking you at an early hour,

they always start your day off right,

and do not mind your greater power;

                they will not fight.

To a woman they are a child;

to a man, like an wayward son.

Whether they’re quiet or quite wild,

                they’ll take a gun.

They’ll shuffle off this mortal coil

and leave you sad; you’ll miss your elf,

whether you put them in your soil,

                or on your shelf.

Because I do remember mine,

staring, rapt, at a bedroom wall,

where he does now in fact recline:

                he heard my call.

© Julianne Carlile