Elegy

By Virginia Konchan

I left my heart at the gravesite
of my cat Elvira, killed on a road.
Before Elvira, I lost six other cats.
Their photos line my wall, in frames.
They are figures of sovereign innocence,
the impossible science of the unique being.
Is to know more about the world to know
more about terror, horror, and abjection?
To bear being seen, the recuperative gaze
of love that sees no flaw in the beloved
is a life labor: with Elvira, it happened
the second I cradled her, the moment
I said you’re home now, you’re mine.
Months passed, after she was taken,
when the only moving image I could
bear to see was raw uncut footage of
animals reunited with their owners,
or saved from peril — dogs, donkeys,
and snow leopards in mute ecstasy.
All of her cries were interrogative,
on earth: the world a question she
sought answers to. Driving home
last night, I pulled the visor down
to occlude the sun. And in its place
I saw her, the stable object of beauty
floating in the air, irrespective of my
position, comforting the comfortless.
Call it what you like, it’s still there:
a silent, calm, ponderous presence
illuminating the heart’s empty room.
I call it grief, call it Elvira, my baby,
call it mother, or what it is, the moon.