My cat followed me up and down the stairs
with a macabre stare, until they notified me
Leah left, my mother said died.
A lady’s letter-to-the-editor said the murder occurs
first within the murderer
sometimes years before,
that guns don’t kill
but of course they do and do and do.
I agree with her too.
That love is a homicidal action,
missing overfills us and loss rolls down
the street too fast to disable.
In this case, the murder itself is in question.
The evidence mounts for both flanks.
Every sweater has two sides, in and out.
Leah could make one from sheep feed.
But her talents couldn’t save her.
When she sat at my kitchen table last time
Life hoofed on death’s tin floor a hobbled tune.
Strangely, sympathy lies in science.
Shroedinger tried to blast open paradox
and show us empty air
instead of blood and gore.
His kitten knew death and life
are Russian dolls opening upon each
but we resist what cats know
because our capacity is less and unlimited.