Is Daisy Dead?

lying on her side, lolling head, eyelids half shut,

the lens of her eyes dried over

is she dead?

finally dead after thirteen years

blind with blue cataracts, blundering into the

walls, wondering where she is

is she dead?

guilt rises in my throat that I ever wished

her dead when cleaning messes, refilling food,

taking care

is she dead?

in the summer the soil is soft and yielding

for a new grave next to the others,

a good time to die,

but is she really dead?

I call to her and she rouses herself,

bumps into the wall going the wrong

direction, then dashes towards

another bunch of carrot tops.

she’s alive.