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Best Friends Animal Society
5001 Angel Canyon Road
Kanab, UT 84741
Haven
she prefers bass notes
as she strolls the keyboard,
the deep thrum in her haunches
reminding every bone
of a mother's endurant
purr. like most,
her scroungy mama
snatched the less wary
field mice & sparrows,
sucked juice from crickets,
scored a rare handout--
a bit of burnt biscuit or
junked chicken gristle.
she's eating for five,
so it all makes milk:
six slack pouches, little
more than a mouthful.
she hasn't the craft
to fix a nest, but anyway
they're transients, one
step ahead of the fox or
buzzard, not to mention
old tom, who has no qualms
about infanticide. if one
sickens, even the mother
leaves it, without
an instinct for mercy.
this immigrant seems
sound enough, no mange
or ooze, though thin
as a book spine. she watched
nine prospects leave
the parking lot before
she called me, rocketed
across traffic, clawed up
my jumper. some human type
dumped her, their own
barbed-wire karma
still ahead. i've too many
creatures already, hairballs
& kibble & underfoot slut's wool
the size of zucchini. the couch
is drenched in dog, noseprints
smudged on my laptop &
a branch of h.lu's feline buffet
in every room. my heart,
otherwise solitary & well-
armored against incursion,
is an easy target
for the wordless,
a sucker for the shivering
pup, the raggedy calico.
& don't think
i'm their goddess, except
for pearl, who guards me
from chip bags & other
household hazards. nope,
i'm staff, their chambermaid,
the kitchen minion who's
always late with supper.
since i don't count,
they spat & tussle for rank:
bruna, the mistress
of the dogbeds, until
taxicat wants one;
ms. lil, with dominion
over the sunny spot;
georgie, the catnip hoarder.
but there's what hard:
these strays & vagabonds,
even once pampered,
can't match our threescore
years & ten--old, instead,
at 12. lungs fill & freeze.
joints seize up. cells
grown crazy, a weary heart,
a nasty miscalculation
in the bloodstream:
each one will surely
leave us, though
we're never ready.
what's to do but grieve
& bring home the next
that finds you, stranded
behind the market, camping
in the dumpster, squalling
in the back alley. hurry up.
they're waiting.
Holly Lu Conant Rees, Nashville, Tenn.
