From “Mother” by Dorothea Lasky

From "Mother"
by Dorothea Lasky

I promised my mother
I wouldn't touch anything
That had been long gone
Inside something turned and wiggled
There's a kind of transformation
That can happen on any day

There is a memory from my childhood. When I attended Sam Houston Elementary in Edinburg, TX, a friend of mind had found a dead cat on the other side of the fence. We weren’t supposed to cross over, but someone long ago cut an opening in the chain link pattern. One big enough for elementary kids—we must have no older than seven—to sneak out.

The cat had been dead some time. The stink underneath the south Texas sun had not vanished, but it wasn’t as pungent as a freshly dead carcass. Being boys, we had brought sticks with us to poke and prod the dead animal. It’s guts were flattened, jerky-ed by the elements.

I don’t remember being fazed or grossed out by the sight. I was a morbid child, already planning out my last will and testament, dividing my possessions to friends I’ve known for a couple of years.

This poem just reminded me of a different time of my life. It was originally featured in the Paris Review.