The Scrape of Whiskers
He sits out in the living room, gray, waxy looking, eyes red and swollen.
She had a baby boy last night, he says. It was too soon. It wasn’t viable. She’ll be home tomorrow. Be nice.
I can hear the scrape of his whiskers across his palms.
She Never Knew
She never knew I was there when I held her little unmade body against my chest, our hearts beating together for just a second and rocked her through the darkness that never left her eyes.
To her, all was nothing and it had no meaning.
She was frail and weak, never crawled on the floor, or wrestled, or laughed with the abandonment of her brothers who came so many years later.
GRAVEWARD WE CARRIED HER
Graveward we carried her on our shoulders.