Ten years you’ve been gone – or really,
not gone but in a different form, changed
into words or music, and sometimes I think
the cat is you, the one who likes sleeping
beneath my pit and gazing up in adoration,
or that crow outside my studio who just sits
on the oak tree staring at the sky.
Though I spread your ashes on my face
before feeding them to the cedars
(as you had asked), I can continue to imagine
your body whole, yet in a weightless kind of happiness
too. We know nothing about death.
Only love, something about that.
Catherine Owen is the author of 15 collections of poetry and prose. Her latest book is Riven (ECW, 2020). These elegies are from a work in progress called The Flowers Terminal.