My Cat Is My Buddha


My cat is my Buddha,
I shall not want
dog nor fish nor fowl.
She sits in sunlight rocking slightly
dreaming of world peace
for all but spiders, moths and flies.
Her eyes are wise, she sees
into the marrow of my heart.
Her fur is warm, she grants it
to my fingers, rasps her nubbly
tongue along the ridged licorice
of thumb and knuckle.
Yea though I do call her Smoke
her name is God.
Though I murmur “silly child”
she is intellect made flesh.
She hears my pleas,
bestows her purrs.
Sweet she is to smell
unless she’s guzzled too much milk.
Her claws are sharp but do not pierce
except when wind dervishes the yard
and she recalls her lost stepbrother,
the one who deviled her for years.
Then does mildness turn to madness.
Then do I pray for peace
which always doth return
eventually. She hums me into sleep
and then awake, sitting by my head,
blessing my bedside glass of water
with her honest breath.
Yea though I walk through the vale
of bitter tears at 3 a.m.
I shall not fear
for Smoke is here,
delicately nibbling at her toes,
warning away the rats of the past,
restoring my soul.