A day after my birthday
she left it outside: by the bedroom door,
soggy with summer rain, curled like a comma,
with a yowl. A present—better late
than never. It lay there, soaking up more rain,
iridescent with a hint of red.
That night as I slept
she brought me another and left it on the bed.
Small as an ink spot, a morning surprise.
Two days later she announced her gift as I lay
On the couch watching Woody Allen wishing
I had his brilliance. This time the little thing was still
alive, so when she dropped it in front of me it ran behind
the speakers and then the love seat. She lost interest
and rolled on the carpet, stretched her legs, lifted her head
and stared smugly into my eyes:
You see, I haven’t forgotten, like your sons or father,
and though I claw you when your strokes last too long
or jump from your lap when your needy hands wish
I would stay—this is my offering.
Fresh from the drenched earth
to your doorstep, your bedpost, at your feet.
Though you are not famous or genius—
You are worth killing for.
About Pamela Hill Epps
