Already I think of her mortality,
this kitten we have rescued
from the silence of your living room.
She was your favorite; because of this,
I have sewn your ghost to her
with thread from the salvaged scraps
of the pillowcase I refuse to wash.
You realized, of course, that you named her
after a drag queen, father. You’d watched
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil,
and in the minute of decision to feed
the dumpster feline, echolalia christened cat
and it became destiny for the homosexual son
to become caretaker apparent.
She rests on my chest, allowed passage
by the other lords of the house
who want to hiss but purr instead.
My love for you has been transferred,
trans… furred, wordplay I cannot resist
for you taught me humor,
but in my humor, there is sadness:
one day she will leave me, too.
The blacks of her pupils hold
a reflection of me that resembles you.
Father and son, we look the same to her.
That thought is comforting, but fleeting.
Ladies age gracefully, but they age.