Sense

The deaf cat chirrups to me, to himself. Curls
his paws all tucked under warm against the deep
fur of his chest. I can’t tell what he knows, that
I can hear, that my eyes turn to him not for
the accordioning of his ribs or the puff of his hot breath
stirring the air? He knows eyes. There is something

he watches for in reply to that sweet, sleepy sound—
if he can be sweet, between the bounding and biting, between
rattling at his food dish, upending it smugly or sneering
turning a rumpled shoulder—something in my face that says
it’s okay to fade, to let those eyes (he knows eyes,
he understands light like a drunken physicist, seeks
photons, meets any gaze) drift on shut.

So who is it who looks at me, hears me, wonders
if I know what I’m lacking, if I know that I throw
something like a soft sound unheard and unsensed
out into the world, waiting for them to make eye contact?