She does not want to move
out of the way of me, of the trembling
rage of staying naked in the rain
which caught her dead throat.
She has arthritis & does not move,
she looks at me & shivers in the rain.
I carried her to shelter past mom’s
wheelchair ramp & wrapped her
in the sun, held her in the rain.
I feel her in the Tombs.
I’m sorry, baby, I’ll bury you
under the oak tree in the rain.
We threw Pretty limp
on the burn piles, the brambles,
roof metal, and tires.
Mama said it wasn’t from the cold.
Chickens can’t die from the cold
or the weather outside.
A fox had run away from the pens
but it was only a tabby cat,
dusted pasture, scared horse blankets.
Mama said It don’t matter
what its name was, it don’t matter.
You didn’t give it a name.
— Hayden Church is a writer from Florida. His work has appeared in Hobart, APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL, Safety Propaganda, SWAMP Magazine, Tragickal, and Misery Tourism, among others. His Twitter is @ghostofolson.