Coil

Calico coil
centered on
the living room rug

springs up to nestle
near me on the couch
as I weep and try to write. 

All is right with that;
I try not to think
about her, take less comfort;

there are holy wars
and greed to resist
as always, of course,

people I know
say if you say nothing
of those, if you don’t 

raise your voice,
you’re scum. So
I’m scum, I guess.

Still, the cat keeps me
from thinking
of my own death

and from turning
my eyes completely
toward darkness. Right now

death is greedy for me,
an unholy shadow
standing behind that.

Resistance
takes the form 
it takes — sometimes

as tears drying
on the calico fur
of a cat curled beside you

as you fight for
your voice to strengthen
enough to be heard.