Reading Poetry to My Cat

Lately I have taken to reading poetry to my cat at night. It's usually around midnight when we both curl up on my bed and I grab a book of Ted Kooser's poems and flip to a random page, whispering the words to Taffy as she sleeps. I like to think that she finds the cadence of my voice as soothing as I find Kooser's words--most of which are so beautiful they bring me to tears.


Here is a poem from his new-to-me collection entitled "Flying at Night." This is one of my (and Taffy's) faves:

Christmas Eve

Now my father carries his old heart
in its basket of ribs
like a child coming into the room with an injured bird.
Our ages sit down with a table between them,
eager to talk.
Our common bones are wrapped in new robes.
A common pulse tugs at the ropes
in the backs of our hands.
We are so much alike
we both weep at the end of his stories.

There is something gorgeously soul-crushing about his lines--the last two in particular. They are so raw, so personal, that I feel like I too know these stories and can't help but weep myself. This poem is an explanation of love, and reading it poem aloud to my cat, as ridiculous as that sounds, is my own attempt at a connection with the closest thing I have to offspring. It is what I most look forward to when I wake up every morning. I think Taffy feels the same way. I hope so, at least.

Four of my favorite things: my baby kitten, poetry, my bed, and my rainbow body pillow named Elliot Stabler.