The Return
The cat has returned from eleven days Godknowswhere, and he is filthy, skittish. His usual purr is louder and constant—he’s finally home—but his meow is weak, as if his squeaker had been pinched in a vise-grip of stress for a week and a half. He must have been trapped in a shed or garage, because his normally leonine fur is now matted with grease and rust dust. But he is still Atticus, the cat my son loves, under all that environmental abuse. He’s drained of everything except gratitude. He falls asleep on my lap as I stroke the belly he has exposed to me, and I recall my first night in this apartment. I had left my wife earlier that day. She was sick of me. I her. A week before, she had moved all my crap (too much crap, I realize now) out onto the front porch, as if to expel and shame me at once. It took me six days to finally give up on the marriage and a day to find this place, where Atticus returned an hour ago. I remember how, in my first week of living here, the old self—the healthier, more confident self— seemed to emerge from some garage within me, some place where, if it couldn’t quite be repaired, at least it could survive. I was grateful for the overturned box that was my dining table, the flashlight that was my chandelier as I read Richard Hugo’s The Real West Marginal Way, and the succor of my footsteps as I crossed to the sleeping bag on the floor in the unfurnished bedroom. It all felt luxurious. Those footsteps were not a sonata that night, but a benediction of easy rhythm, informed by the escape and sanctuary that only I—and now Atticus—could give ourselves. I lay bereft and satisfied on top of the bag, my belly exposed to the emptiness, and the merciful quiet stroked me to sleep.
In our dream band, on jaw harp:
BJ Ward’s most recent book is Jackleg Opera (North Atlantic/Random House). His poems have appeared in Poetry, American Poetry Review, TriQuarterly, The Normal School, Painted Bride Quarterly, The New York Times, The Sun, and The Pushcart Prize Anthology. The recipient of two Distinguished Artist Fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts, he lives in northwest New Jersey near the Musconetcong River. His website is bj-ward.com.
Editor’s Note
Ran Off With the Star Bassoon 