The cats always ran away
To die in the woods
where the moss grew thick
on quartz rock and oak trees,
or like Henry, the Siamese,
into the warm engine
of my father's orange Nova.
& these three living
in the folds of my sheets
when they want to die
where will they go?
three coils and colored
eyes of yellow, green, and blue,
will they just disappear
through the windscreens
chasing those black birds?
death, it curls up
between my thighs in midnight
pitch, fearing mother was right
(about the existence of kitty heaven).