The Last Cry
by Hannah K. New

I kept my finger on the neck
to feel the swallow reflex as I poured
milk down the throat; but still,
it drowned in my attempt
at kindness. I felt the muscles
go limp in my hand, like I held
a beanbag instead of a kitten.

I held onto hope, when the legs twitched
in post mortem reflex, but I heard the last cry
bubble from the throat the moment before it died.
The mother licked the milk from its jaw line.
I wanted to shout at her for such a loving gesture
when it was dead, but none while it was alive.
She simply brushed against me;
and I, knowing Nature can be as cruel as she is kind,
let my hand slide along her back.

When the second one died a week later—
from a fall perhaps, or some wandering
that took it too near dangerous places—
I thought of those mothers who give up one
child, then hold the other until it is too late
for either, wanting one to remember her
and the other to forget.




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