1.
In the funeral home, the hounds are at the door.
Somehow empty in abundance
the flowers remain and droop, throw their scent
across the room, the crisp touch that clings
to the nostrils, the pungency that resembles life.
Somewhere, a body, a marionette in need of repair.
2.
In Kenya, the matriarchs care each day
for their elephant young, protecting the feet of little ones,
their new trunks. I’ve heard the death of one makes the herd circle,
a closed stanza of grief.
And in a pride of lions, females are the hunters
who feed their cubs, so small.
3.
Where is my mother?
The impassable room.