Kittens with Milk

Perhaps as a

Little lady

I found compassion

With the kittens

On the farm, like

The baby Jesus

Warmed in the manger

And blankets of straw

Perhaps I found

Riches of beaded

Cows milk on

Kittens’ whiskers

Unpasteurized like

My Grandmother and

I am her age, now

With softer skin

Her dried hands

Fed the kittens

With warm milk from

Margarine containers-

Containers collected

In the memory of

Depression.

Waste not want not.

I had the depression!

And no one understood.

So, I sat on a bales of straw

Counting kittens.

I left the farm

To a place of

“Higher learning,”

To play Shakespeare-

Depression sealed

In a cold lunch container.

Labeled “I can’t believe

It’s not butter.”

Later, I took kittens

To my grandmother,

Beneath my over coat:

A photo in my pocket.

“You like cats

Like I do.” She said,

Instead of “what no

Great grand children?”

Perhaps, as her ashes

Were tossed into the sky

Caught by the hand

Of adult Jesus

I found nourishment,

In the emptiness of

Her hand held to me,

As she fed kittens with milk.