if they died in winter
my mother lowered the cats
into this freezer. Towel wrapped
bundles, eyes pickling,
they waited for dirt
our shovels could dig easy.
I'd move aside bagel bites
and smiley fries,
she'd gather up
the stiff dead cats,
and together we'd dig
miniature graves.
Out the window of the garage,
frozen plastic thawing
in my hand, I watch
hydrangeas glow
in her garden, petals
like the pink tongues
of cats crossed over, stubborn
meows hanging on the air.