To The Kitten Who Died In My Care Last Friday Morning
It seems absurd, that there should be such a difference
in lungs fluttering with air and lungs without
transformed, in (a breath) a moment into fragile scraps of tissue
like wilted flowers or butterflies’ wings.
And it seems absurd, on a hot June day,
to touch my hand to something cold
and have even my heartbeat change
as the metal taste of dread reaches the underside of my tongue.
While your heart, a tiny whispering thing
a little pulsing jewel smaller than the tip of my finger
goes to a place where I can no longer hear it.
These are the mysteries science will never explain–
how the air around us can change
simply by the lack of breathing of one pair of lungs
and the winking out of existence
of one minute being of black and white
that had, with tiny intrepid pin-pricks of claws,
just minutes before
braved the cliff of my collarbone to take shelter
in the hollow between my neck and shoulder.