Yellow Mama Archives II

Rob Plath

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the smallest feline is a masterpiece— da vinci/i hear my cat crying

 

by Rob Plath

 

i hear my cat crying 

in the little room 

where they’re taking her blood 

but i’m not allowed in 

& she doesn’t understand 

why they’re doing this 

holding her down

sticking needles in her hind leg 

stealing her blood 

but still she doesn’t scratch or bite 

doctor or tech 

she just cries 

& i think about how i used 

to violently vomit 

every morning 

for a year

when she was a kitten 

& how she’d push 

the bathroom door open 

tiptoe in 

& stand there checking on me 

& i want to run in there 

pull the needles out 

& pick her up & hug her 

& run to the car 

& never return 

i once read that centuries ago 

it was thought that tears 

were made from broken parts 

of the heart 

& i remember as my mother lay dying 

the blood that often trickled 

from her right eye 

like some myth about a statue of a saint 

in some tiny village somewhere 

& now as my cat cries 

& days later when on the phone w/ the vet 

as she explains about bone marrow biopsies 

& oncologists 

i don’t believe in lacrimal glands at all 

as wet threads of my heart 

rise up 

& collect in my eyes



no typewriter or ABCs necessary

 

by Rob Plath

 

often my poems are 

falling from the mouth 

of my old wooden 

schoolhouse desk 

that’s stuffed w/ them 

& if i’m not looking 

my cat will sink

her fangs into pages 

she’s my best critic 

& knows goddamn well 

that all this scribbling 

is such bullshit 

even the poems about her 

milk-white whiskers 

fanned out in moonbeams 

or her diamond yellow eyes

calmly blinking at me 

during a thunderstorm

she’d much rather i just sit w/ her 

my hands instead brailling 

the buttons of her backbone 

or rubbing her belly 

b/c she is it—poetry incarnate



my cat sleeps

 

by Rob Plath

 

w/ head turned 

upside-down 

curve of her 

closed eye 

a smile



it’s enough

 

by Rob Plath

 

the cat’s napping 

in an empty

brown grocery sack 

& i’m half 

in the goddam bag 

so to speak 

sitting in my chair 

my amber glass beside 

the busted buddha statue 

on the crooked little 

thrift store table 

& it’s enough to just look

at the pub lights 

shining on rainy pavement 

across the way 

& listen to car tires 

turning on wet streets 

slow peeling sounds 

like peace hatching 

out of its shell


Contrary to popular belief, Rob Plath is not yet under the jurisdiction of the worms. His latest book of poems, Batter the Keyboard Like a Raptor Is Behind Yr Back, is available from Laughing Ronin Press. See more of his work at: https://na01.safelinks.protection.outlook.com/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.robplath.com%2F&data=05%7C01%7C%7C884f26d4642447b37dde08dafbd27fcc%7C84df9e7fe9f640afb435aaaaaaaaaaaa%7C1%7C0%7C638099178749833510%7CUnknown%7CTWFpbGZsb3d8eyJWIjoiMC4wLjAwMDAiLCJQIjoiV2luMzIiLCJBTiI6Ik1haWwiLCJXVCI6Mn0%3D%7C3000%7C%7C%7C&sdata=nUFUqIO%2FqMGdsIPxME02Zxinp%2BHrxKnCzrdv8p4u0EM%3D&reserved=0


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