Journal Fifty-Five Raindrops on Roses

Abbi's cat, Albus, has passed. I had a pretty melancholy day about it and then I watched Rachel Getting Married. Oh. My. God. I thought I had nothing to say about Albus dying, and really, I guess I don't have too much to say, but I still wrote a poem about it. I apologize for treading on your grief, Abbi.

Also, I want a milkshake and a place to drink it.

Albus

I hear sirens,
but first I think they are music.
As they get closer,
I know they are sirens,
but I still think they are music,
the music of emergencies,
the best we've done
to cause worry
through light
and wretched sound.

They pass,
of course--
I only live a block
from the hospital.
Abbi has just called
and she is telling me
about the death of her cat.
The whole thing,
the whole event,
is silent and solemn.

There is no siren
for the death of an animal,
only the whir
of whatever machine,
only the gasps
of people holding out.

She says a few things
about not being able
to say a few things.
"Because," she says,
"there is nothing to say."
I say it's so true,
what she just said.

We sound like
we're talking about a burglary
or a stolen child,
and maybe we are.
"Even if there are no words,"
I say, "for what this is,
maybe we're heard anyway."

After I say it,
I want to take it back
and just say nothing instead,
commiserate without language.
I don't say anything for a while
and neither does she.
The only sounds
are the alien clicks
of a static connection,
a mess of simple calls
trying, all at once,
to be heard.