Poppy

10.14.14

The cat is dead.
The cat's kitten three days later
thirty miles away and by the same violence
is dead.  I find my sister

face down arms against her body
on the quilt.  As if she keeled
with no effort to break the fall.
She breathes into the cotton.

Are you sad? is what I say.

Everywhere dust
undisturbed by paws
settles.