Because my kidneys were failing
and I didn’t have a donor yet I had
surgery on my left arm to prepare it for
dialysis. Because now the circulation
in that arm doesn’t work so well
I carry a little stress ball to squeeze
to try to keep it from retaining fluid.

Because all last week I kept forgetting
to carry it with me I made sure to
put it in my jacket pocket this
morning. Because I still had to brush
my teeth I laid my jacket down on
the table and went into the bathroom.

Because I left the door open and
because the table is visible in the
mirror at that angle and because
my cat loves investigating anything
left on the table I got to witness
him pawing at the soft ball he

discovered, a hidden toy just
for him, prancing in his delight.
Sometimes I lie awake hours feeling
that my life is an immovable weight
I must somehow endure another day
when, from out of nowhere, joy
overtakes me like a flood.

I have not slept well. Awake at 4,
I’m too cold to go back to sleep,
and too easily wakened completely
to get up and find my flannel pajamas
and then go back to sleep. Catch-22.

I finally give in at 5 and get up, begrudging everything:
cold, the coming day, wakefulness, the world.
In the stove I lay logs on last night’s coals,
not bothering with tinder; a trickle of smoke
and I desert it to catch flame on its own.

I grumpily measure out water for the morning’s porridge,
two cups, and turn on the electric range, a practice
so rote I could do it in my sleep. Then,
switching off the kitchen lights, I reward myself
by lying on the couch until the water boils.

It’s a sort of lie, of course, a momentary
make-believe that I could go back to sleep.
But the couch is soft, and so is the dark,
and I listen as over in the kitchen the range
ticks into a dully glowing heat

while on my other side the fire comes alive,
a cracking, flickering orange creeping through
the stove door I left ajar to give it air.
And then, from nowhere in the dark room
my little cat appears upon my chest

and begins purring at once, her delicate paws
kneading and unclenching on the fabric
of my robe, her head pushed into the hand
that gropes blindly toward her, her little fire
delighting in all that is right in the world.

I am the calf, separated from the herd,
the wolves closing in. I am the kit fox
caught in the open. I am the penguin
father who has kept my chick alive
through the brutal cold, and I’ve given it
my last meal, waiting for my mate to come.
She will not come. I am the bear gone
too long and too far without food
lying down for the last time. It was
a desperate gambit I tried in the end
and I lost. I’ve nothing else left.