LYRE

                                for Oliver

I rescued you from near-certain death

and now, whenever possible, you draw blood.

You don't mean to, most of the time

and I'm not sorry to have you home.

Just after you arrived we were struck

with illness so dire you must have felt

you traded your cell for some other hell.

Nothing could be done; I could only lie stone-still

with all two pounds of you rising and falling

on my laboring chest, or encircling a feverish crown

dreaming dreams that never will be known.

What a comfort you were, our little orphan,

with your warmth, rhythmic purr, your constancy.

Once well, well we raced and romped,

thrumping down the hall, you, pouncing on a dust mote

chasing a snippet of tail, fencing with feathers.

We are bonded now, paradoxically, from our time immobile

and rub heads as animals sometimes do;

I kiss your non-existent lips, you lick my salty cheek,

I bear your scrapes and scratches without ire;

You are my devilish dancing tiger, my gilded lilting lyre.

Julianza Shavin c 2006