Caleb and Hester, 1996

She would come to the back door

when we ate dinner and rub her bloody

sores on the glass, sick in old age. Chipmunks

used to lay dead near her full bowl

with their necks splayed and I inside proud

that we shared a birthyear.

 

I once put on a surgical glove to dig

my fingers into her caked black fur

and laid a towel across my lap

so the huntress could rest, but that last day

when she shook outside in the rain,

I watched our shared lives passing

without a touch from the family

room window.

2 thoughts on “Caleb and Hester, 1996

  1. Jamie Daniel says:

    I think you are a poet at heart! Your writings on monasticism were interesting. Do I sense a personal struggle?

    Things are fine here at GreenFields; it was the right decision and timely.

    Sent from my iPad

    >

    Like

    1. Warner says:

      Hi Jamie,

      Thank you for reading. I don’t know if I can call it a personal struggle. I more see it as a personal passion and ambition. If I am going to hold any ambition at all, I want to hold it with conviction.

      I am glad to hear everything is going well with you. What sort of foods do they have?

      Like

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