Amanda Shaw ’97J
Alumnae Poet
Select Poems
October frst, the raw air tempting the cats
to a truce, burying
battle lines in the duvet’s down. It’s Sunday:
no calls to doctors
I have to convince to help, no promises
to Medi-swear-to-god
she’s worth the money. Down the road
someone’s mowing,
adult children gather next door; late-season bees
drowsing and curious
mean a grandchild is going to cry. Tractors,
manure: weekends
just a different set of chores—
Dust banisters, Empty litter, Mop floor.
My hands are drying out. These little brats,
they’re “geriatric”—
fourteen years ago someone found them
in a wall, together, mewling
and kittenhood was shared in tiny baskets.
Now their fights
are so pitched I think I’m hearing tomcats
squaring off in the night
which is already too cold for September.
Tomorrow I’ll promise myself
in unwritten lists Buy lotion, Call Care Coordinator,
Find gloves/scarves/hats
while Ginger, whose husband couldn’t die at home,
feeds the last hummingbirds.