Washing

My last Kiki poem

I wrote this poem in late February, but I haven’t shared it with you because I don’t like to share sad things until I can read through them without crying (though I’m in tears as I recall the memories to write this paragraph, I promise that I read through the poem earlier with dry eyes). About a week after writing the words below, my wife and I were at the vet’s office for Kiki’s last visit. Kiki died nuzzled between us. She lay with her paw resting on my shoe and her snout on my wife’s, no longer struggling to breathe. It was so difficult, but so beautiful.

Here’s the poem:

Washing

You’re skin, hair, bone;
thinness like the too small, 
too cheap, disposable gloves
that rip at my wrists.
I carry you to the tub.
You’ve become something ethereal.
I squat to ease your descent
as you shiver and resist my grip
till all of your four
feet touch the slick solid surface
of the tub floor. 
Jesus received Nard.
I have no perfume to anoint you.
I bathe you with lavender soap
poured into my old T-shirt scraps.
Tenderly,
I rub suds against your aching legs and
tail which hasn’t wagged in months.
You respond with tremors of 
pain and confusion, a look
of unfamiliarity, yet when
I put my hand out, your
cheek reflexively presses into
my palm and you stop shaking. 
Your body’s hair has lost its soft,
but this place, around your face,
between and under your ears,
is fluff as a pup as you rub comfort
from my outstretched hand.
We know you will die soon.
Outside, daffodils bloom.

In wordy wordiness,

Walter