Poem by Elsa Morante

Minna the Siamese

I’ve got a little animal, a cat: her name is Minna.

Whatever I put in a plate, she eats,

and whatever I put in a bowl, she drinks.

Crouching she comes to me, watches me, then sleeps,

so soundly I forget she’s there. But if, then,

grateful, I call her name, in sleep an ear

trembles: her name casts a shadow over her sleep.

To give joy and grace, she has a little guitar;

if I scratch her little head or neck, she sweetly plays.

If I think of the centuries and all that divides us,

I’m afraid. Afraid for me: she knows nothing of this.

But if I see her playing with a string, if I gaze

at her pale blue irises, happiness is mine again.

On holidays, when everyone is merry,

I feel sad for her, that she doesn’t discern between the days.

So that she too will celebrate, for lunch I give her a little fish;

the motive she can’t understand: but joyous, she eats.

Heaven, for love of her, gave her nails and teeth:

but she, so gentle, only uses them in play.

I am taken by sadness at the thought that, even if I were to take her life,

I’d have no trial, no fires of hell, no prison.

She gives me so many kisses that to be kind to her I flatter myself,

but I know that another mistress, or me, to her it makes no difference.

She follows me, so I believe I am everything to her,

but I know my death could not touch her...

(1941)

Translated by Nick Benson from the Italian of Elsa Morante (1912-1985), Alibi. Longanesi, 1958; Garzanti, 1988.