Apollo and the Yellow Cat

Fray Narte, Philippines

Sunlight is a pale, puny, yellow bird in June

tossed by a careless child in the rain.

My brother, Apollo, lived for two days and died in my mother’s arms

with cold, blue, baby lips; at four, I

wished him dead and away

from my poor mother’s folding bed.

I stood in his funeral, my yellow shirt, bright and vivid

before his little, dull coffin;

my yellow shirt, bright and vivid

in photographs from twenty years ago.

My brother, Apollo, is named after the sun god

who has learned to tame himself when resting on your skin.

It has been twenty, regretful years and all things yellow are no longer bright,

no longer vivid, no longer alive.

Things die out like cottage lights.

Even the sun god has started to die; he has

longed for your vitality, your kindest heart,

your little yellow paws so full of life,

full of humble, brown earth, full of love

that he has taken you away.

Apollo — my brother — the sun god now, I assume,

sits on his throne with brightly eloquent lips, with his back turned to me.

You passed in my arms, the way he did in our mother’s.

Your body, still yellow, still asleep and forever in peace.

I still wish you life four months later,

the way I did that night.

I am sorry.

I hope Apollo holds you, now kindly, lovingly,

in his majestic sun chariot, and takes you everywhere

without the cold ruthless rain and human-bound thoughts on your trail.

I hope it is always warm wherever you go:

that is how I’ll always remember you.

Fria "Fray" Narte is a creative writer from the Philippines. She is also a licensed mental health professional who is pursuing her master's degree in Social Psychology. She has a new-found interest in spirituality and metaphysics.