This morning we brought Alexander
home to bury him beneath the oaks.
After first digging him up where
the neighbor had buried him
three days before.
You said we would never know
if it was him or not.
I had thought digging him up
would tell.  But it did not.
I covered him over in the hole
you had dug, made a monument
with pieces of lake driftwood,
securing it with stones from the path.
We added an egret feather,
a bunch of faded caspia.
The prodigal cat who ate all over
the neighborhood, bowls of milk
put out to his demanding meow,
rabbits that were easy picking
where they came to munch
the horse’s hay.
I kept thinking he would yet come back,
and before we finished breakfast
he had.


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