Euthanasia
death was born on a slab
of cold metal, swirled streaks
from years of hard scrubbing,
the angel of mercy with twig
fingers, bony and brown,
delicate upon the matted fur.
his assistants were gentle, too,
with practiced looks of pain
and commiseration. perhaps
it never got easier with time.
we spread the ashes in the woods,
adding to the ghosts that roamed
through the decaying leaves
and fragile trillium flowers,
past the spot where I built
my first fort out of sticks,
and the rusting cans left
after the farmer's target practice.
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