Dhael Monfiston

The Tabby 

the tabby is sunbathing 

in a spot 

on the carpet marked,

through the window 

catching dust particles 

floating in the air 

while my mother 

makes beans 

on flames to pair with 

warm soup 

and maybe,

if 

I shut my eyes hard enough,

the moment will not pass. 

The trumpet 

on the radio, warm,

my mother taps her tangerine nails 

on the counter 

and I smile. 

she claims my jazz 

gives her a migraine, but 

I know 

she just needs something 

to complain about.

An apricot scarf 

is wrapped around the neck 

of the stuffed tabby 

my grandmother gave me 

before she passed.

Now the cat rests there,

still, 

like the memory 

of her, sunny.

Little Leather Loafers 

Shoes so small, 

they could have fit me 

in middle school.

The pair belonged to 

a little brown man, 

with a short stride and 

a slow cadence.

Now, the loafers are just 

a memory in a box 

hidden

in a dark corner 

in the back of my mother’s closet.

When you died,

a woman walked up 

to one of your daughters 

after the mass 

dedicated to you.

She said she’d seen you in her sleep.

You came to tell her that 

you were doing well,

you were happy and 

with your son 

with your saint of a wife.

A woman 

who barely knew you, 

got to see you again.

But you nor abue ever 

came to me in dreams.

I was supposed to see 

the both of you 

in a few short months

each time ripped away 

from me, like a Band-Aid except 

there was no countdown, 

no warning.