Mother’s Day, 2023

Before killing the chipmunk with a spade,

I lay in my hammock trying to appreciate

how perfect everything might be

if only my brain could stop.

The chipmunk groveled in circles

with its neck twisted like a broken twig

as it tried to go back—with eyes popping—

to before my cat had maimed it.

The spade was in my garage.

My cat observed her victim in the grass.

The hammock was in the past.

In the present, this creature

between me and my patio

suffered as no creature ever should.