the house died with Tiger Lily,
the one            who inhabited

space we merely lived in
she experienced with experiments

how carpet fiber tastes, how books pull
off shelves, how sun moves from sofa to chair

details of every room she measured
coded into her pink paws

we are deaf without mao-mrrow
we sleep without            between us

we occupy an impersonal container
a storage shed with no            surprises

proud neck arched, she would show off
her mice      whose turds now desecrate her floor

Published in Eunoia Review