Dissonance

We're the closest through a proxy:
a three-year-old, tar-black cat
that should have been a dog.
He follows wherever I go,
surrenders a soft mass of purrs
and blissful dreams into my arms;
the light graze of his breath on my hand
is the secret door to a light-filled room
where you comb my hair, endlessly.

But then I think of something
you told me years ago,
how once, to protect your caged
bird, out of sheer rage, you broke
a cat's back with a stick --
an image of you (Queen of Quiet
and Grace) which somehow
I can't quite place.