It’s true what they say about black
cats:
It’s hard to take a good photo of you.
Your fur, a blurry shadow in every shot
The hallowed night I hold in my hands.
Now I know the secret,
how to find that sacred light.
When I’m shrouded by the dark
I just look for your green eyes.
Whoever said cleanliness is next to
godliness
was surely thinking of your forebears.
Oh, to be loved by a small god
who demands no prayer
a killer who cares to keep me
alive, by sitting on my chest
while I sleep. It’s to make sure
I’m breathing, I know. Just another job
between shifts at the biscuit factory,
kneading tirelessly into my soft
middle.
Tiny masseuse, sweet baker
make something nourishing
of me. Fill our home with that cosmic
gift
of healing, the music of you
meowing trilling yowling purring
my tissues and bones whole, between
naps.
What fortune, what luck to be chosen
by the perfect black cat.
“Ode to My Cat” does not appear in Be Water (Anvil Press, 2026).
Grace is a queer Hong Kong-born settler living on the traditional and Treaty territory of the Anishinabek people. Her sophomore collection, Be Water, is published by Anvil Press. Her debut poetry collection, The Language We Were Never Taught to Speak, is a Lambda Award finalist and her work can be found in ROOM, carte blanche, The Malahat Review, Arc Poetry, and elsewhere. Find her online @thrillandgrace.
