Dead Body

 

 

My cat, an adopted ginger 

Stray,  licks her three new 

Kittens with such unmistakable

Cat love, no one can doubt 

The purity of all-encompassing

Animal instinct. But one 

Of them never makes it 

After the cold spell, she succumbs 

To the common cold. After

The little one had coughed her

Last, the mother never gives

Her much thought, knowing

It is only an empty shell lying

There, cold and now indifferent

To her solicitous tongue. 

And so she shifts her attention 

To the two remaining ones, 

For whom she must save her 

Milk, as we give her extra nutriment,

Including much soup and greens.

We take away the empty shell

For final safekeeping under 

The bushes in the back yard.

 

We cannot treat with such

Nonchalance the human shell

Left out in the street after the chase

And gunshots in the middle 

Of the night. Notice how we 

Affix the word human even if 

It is already a shell. Never mind

That the poor one’s assailants

Never gave him a chance,

With only a rumor or a list or an

Order as basis to erase him

From existence because his

Supposed addiction to an evil

Substance had made him

Less than human. His empty

Shell lies there on the pavement,

Or on the front page, under

The street light, and we can 

Neither hide him under 

The bushes nor simply look away.

 

27 October 2019

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