Fourth Night

Cat: ball of light, jumping like mercury through your soft outer self,

and quivering with the half-wild smell

of outside grass and inside pillows, hidden house-holes.


You are not here now, this windy March after you slipped through the door.

I still see you there, and over there--

White flashes (old snow or sunlight): they could be your proud white chest.


Your little bowl, shiny clean now,

Empty, these four blank days,

In the house that is silent of you.


The ache expands a little more

Each day: a sore opening,

A love so sharp that wields a tender knife.


You pound my heart, that loves, that love,

My little man, best little man,

Cat that you are, indeed.


Each night, I stand out in the

Dark and call, “good night,

come back to me!”


I hear my voice,

The stars stare back.

Although Bobbie Miranda Crafts primarily writes short fiction -- both adult and YA, and some pieces where both converge -- Bobbie also writes poetry and belongs to an online poetry group she discovered when attending Spalding University’s brief residency program for a Masters in creative writing. She also founded and run a horse rescue/sanctuary.