Calling the Vet
Of course they were doomed,
born with a curse; the whole litter mewing, cradled by
the torn out seat-stuffing in a hearse on flat tires.
Of course we took them; a chance to be gods and healers,
our internal boggle turning like mileage to spell "Mom."
We boxed them on blankets and sweatshirts,
fixed a water teat to the side within reach,
administered formula feedings in a warm kitchen none
of it mattered. The weak ones
died before the debate on names.
She was soggy-faced, her prize pick
wrapped in a cardboard coffin box
like a Christmas gift.
It weighed less than a Beanie Baby, its yellow eyes
shut beneath stuffed animal fur for always.
I dug a hole out front with a stone and tucked the box under
