by James Croal Jackson
I found you at the bottom
of the stairs looking up to what
I thought was me but past me
toward the white ceiling that
conceals the sky where we
have watched the birds often
go to a better place when
the temperature drops
I held you in my hands
still warm in your final
moments you thrashed
and bit me so deeply
only when I rushed in
through automations
to the receptionist
did I notice my hand
draped in blood when
they carried you away
for the last time I would
ever know you knew me