Postpartum
What’s done is done. The cat slinking 
along the back fence, mouth 

feathered. My body failing by degrees.
Don’t worry about tomorrow.

Each day has enough. Trouble, that is.
I name this the day of no regrets.

How is it that each sparrow still looks
to the feeder, months empty?

Animals know what’s coming to them.
Or don’t. Running heedless

across streets. Two bodies I found.
One, the gray cat curled next to the signpost.

Two, the squirrel splayed belly up.
A mother, clearly. Let us live like this matters.

Arteries narrowing to a whim.
Blood thrumming through its acres.
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