I know. I know, I know why mum killed you. Why she
poisoned you so your little itty-bitty heart would freeze
mid-beat.
I know, I confess.
She didn’t want you there, she was scared. Of what?
I don’t know that. But I understand her fear.
I’m sorry, too.
You didn’t deserve to just-
die.
You probably had a family counting on you
a family that needed you
a family that probably is going to die now.
I’m sorry.
You were just doing what you thought was right
good
nice
well, maybe not.
But you did what you had always done, and what you knew best to do.
And well,
I’m sorry.
And it was worse, seeing you and knowing
never again will you pick up a crumb
twitch your paw and run
so scared
across the kitchen floor.
Now you’re stuck
in the dirt.
In a two-second grave made
on the side of the house.
I’m sorry.
Your eyes weren’t closed
and they stared at me
asking
sadly
quietly
for life, a chance again.
They were scared, your eyes. Did they know?
Did they know you would never use them again?
Did they know you’d be gone soon?
And did they know that they would watch, all alone, for the first time, alone
the grass
and the trees
pass by
and know they’d never see them again?
Did they know, as I set your still-warm body down
that that ray of sun would be the last?
And as the dirt covered your eyes,
did they know they’d never see again?
I would’ve closed your eyes,
but they were too small.
I could only close my own eyes
and water your grave with dew.
I’m sorry.
You shouldn’t have died like that
but I can’t change what has happened.
I wish I could
but I can’t.
I’m sorry.