seven kittens

these kittens
all lined in a
row, eight at
last count, queued
up in a curl
like cut strands
of thickened
dough, eyes knitted
closed, still
in darkness
and yet inching
towards what they
already know, their
mouths open and
reaching for warm
milk, and their mother
moving them with
her soft bite
from side to side
as they slide, not
quite clean, or
dry, becoming new,
becoming who they
were meant to be,
and each will have
a turn at life,
except for one,
who has gone
strangely still,
and died.