So I ask her how her cat died,
not like I expected an interesting answer,
because it’s usually cancer or old age
or getting hit by a car, that’s how cats die,
after all.
She says no,
he was a kitten.
He didn’t know any better when he
climbed into the dryer
one dull day in late August. Her mother
didn’t know any better when she closed
the dryer door and set it running,
expecting only to dry her family’s
socks and underwear,
not to kill the poor thing.
I wonder if he died right away from the heat—
my curiosity frightens her—
or if the incessant churning of the machine
finally cracked his skull.
His small body would have been spinning around
like a lonely rider on a Ferris wheel,
and he would never know what it is
to kill a mouse or
sharpen his claws on the furniture,
only the motion of the metal barrel
and the worn-through socks
falling, revolving, falling.
Gender:
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