The Nigger in the Woodpile

It wasn’t for “The Nigger of
The Narcissus” that my cat, black
As sin or soot, was named, but for
His colour pure and simple, save

For fierce blue, soul-divining eyes,
The most heavenly part of him.
My father, picking up the wood-
Heap chips too hastily to heat

Bath water with got shit on his
Fingers and drowned the beast, despite
Once having expressed wonder at
An animal’s fastidiousness

In covering up its excrement.
And even though he may have used
A bag because he knew he’d fail
To stand the piercing look he’d get,

I still to this day can’t feel past
The dead weight of my grief and hate,
Forgive him for the outcome of
His madly rushing round in search,

Of first the fiend, and then a stone,
A piece of rope, axe, hammer, knife,
Emptying out his old tool box
And finally settling for a sack

He scattered mounds of sugar from.
Encumbered by his hands held at
Arms’ length and rubbed and rubbed again
In horror, like Lady Macbeth’s,

They made him forget decency,
And yet they also gave to me,
With which to punish his cruel self,
My darkest memory of the man.