Skin and Bones (Still Sounds)

the dying animals
have stopped circling the rooms
claiming their favorite spots
on rugs and chairs
they have stopped
making their cartoonish runs
up cat trees
then back down
with their tender nails
sounding like rough rain
on the wood floors –
their blue bowls
always half full
mostly ignored now,
pleasure is losing its grip
fading away;

they look more poured than alive
yet I still reach for them
each puddle of fur
taking his turn
years apart
stretched out
on the dark little island
beneath the dining room table
I want to remind them of touch
of their abundance
their buoyancy
their swagger –
I feel for their old fulnesses
their rounded places
but instead find sharp carvings
nature’s stark scaffolding
beneath the tender patterns
where skin and bone meet;

I also find the places
where life still sparks
nearby irregular pulses
and heartbeats –
there is so little fire left
every movement is electric
every sound full of intention
holding me in place
in this temple of wooden legs –
I find myself hoping
for tenderness beyond this life
but how can that be?
there is only now
only the slow shivering
into the next breath
there is no walking away
while their ears
little velvet cups
still turn to my voice;

what do they know of death
to be so stoic now
so still
in the cool shadows
how do they know
so perfectly
how to live
and somehow, silently
without any fuss
how to die –
too late I have learned
there is no advantage in knowing
about endings to come
so quiet, so definite,
a simple step over the line
contained, complete –
as each of them tiptoed finally,
away from me and the useless light

This poem first appeared in Chiron, Issue #132, Spring 2024