God grant whatever’s left to guinea pigs
of late. They seem to never grace themselves
with wisdom, though they contemplate the ways
of mortal days, and stare at books on shelves.
What chronicle we need is nothing to
propound. Our little
life (conjoined, alone)
is rounded with a slumber, then a sleep.
We eat and run, we bury extant bones.
Dear Ben in our backyard was showing Squeak
this fact: Squeak leapt at Pushkin’s grave and be-
yond our reach—he followed Pushkin’s fate. Then
his mother died, his brother sold, and we
are left with one last pig: Tanya, brown, male.
God grant that wiser days and prayer prevail.
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