Grocery Store Tulips
Bought on a whim, pale petals shut
like seashells slow to open, waiting to soak
in the weak light that streaks through the window.
My cat unbothered, too old to be curious, the tip
of her tail a calligraphy brush dipped in ink.
I serve her daily meds, a chemical rosary
over her food bowl just to keep her a little more,
to keep her curled like a comma in the crook of my thighs.
Later that week, the vet pulls out a box of tissues
while I stand there crying, still wearing my winter coat,
my favourite sweater. The salt I tracked in from wet pavement
a kind of sand across the floor. The vet’s fingernails shine
like the inner nacre of seashells, like the curve
of the tulip bowing to time on the table back at home,
where my cat will never be again. Grey days later
watching the tulips spend their last days curling
into new shapes, colour darkening, drying
into small husks I sweep into my hand.