but now she grows demure and weak.
Our little pygmy, bonsai girl,
rolled in a ball, hidden in the drawer
like a tiny little pearl.
When she dies, we will grieve and
smash her bowl on the floor.
Scattered pieces like scattered ashes
the mass fire she seems even smaller,
cremated with all the others
in the industrial bowels
anonymous and nameless
how we do the animals.
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