The kitten and I
spend the afternoon watching
glaciers the size of lower Manhattan
calve into the sea.
The ice can be up to 600 feet thick.
When it rolls in the churning arctic
it looks like the thick black neck
of a sea monster rising from the deep,
its open mouth a cascade of snow drifts
studded with blue-grey debris.
I tell Boots, Soon we’ll live underwater.
There will be one long, hot season.
She opens her mouth to yawn
and I put my finger on her pink tongue,
the most durable and delicate muscle,
specially grooved to lap. Our bodies
are not made for this, I tell her.
She stretches her back and naps.