For Phoenix

As most of you know, we euthanized Phoenix yesterday.  I wrote this for him this week.

RIP little buddy.

Lung Cancer

     for Phoenix

He grabs for breath, his rib cage pulsing like an accordion

that only rasps in a single note.  I can hear the fluid

holding him to the life raft, his eyes glassy as they look to some lost

place.  I cover him with blankets, bring water and my body

to comfort him.  He takes a drink and lowers his head

back to the bed; I disappear.  The air surrounds us

and my chests aches with the ease of my inhale, the exhale

following without my control. His struggle’s weight

caves the bed’s center, and he coughs, lightly,

as if there is nothing there to expel.  I know better.

When he gags, spits out a tiny mouthful of blood,

I wonder how much liquid a lung can hold.  How much

will drown him?  This is not the single, clean inhale

of salt water after a shipwreck.  This is a long, slow

death process that feels like sawing off pieces

of my body, one mouthful at a time.