That night
the silence was empty
for the cats
would mew
                                   no more.

The la la la-ing that comforted me,
helped slide the shadow over my eyes,
without it the cord loosened,
my body fumbling for a weight, a familiar tightness
to gather around myself
and tuck me
                                   under the cats' warm bellies.

Cherry Lane is no longer sweet, but it is red.
the paper box is where the cats kept the,.
hidden beneath the jasmine bush,
sweetness lightly infused with bitter metal,
those sparrows
                                   with the ** over their eyes.

My father found the paper box.
I can't hear the cats' song
any more.
There was something in the buttermilk
                                   from 1957.