Joseph Rios
First Grade
When Josefo got there, the kittens
laid in pieces. Some here, there. He found
dirt dusted hind parts. Black hair. Tails.
Little feet like pinky fingers, soft velvet
ears and bit halves of terrified faces.
What blood remained, the droplets rolled
away and grabbed onto the dust.
Without wailing or crying, Josefo touched
each of the pieces. He crouched over them,
bent down and examined them. His hand
combed over their fur, his knees in his chest.
Josefo picked up what was left of his kittens,
ones he had yet to name, after school
and after waving away his grandfather’s van.
Josefo buried the parts under grass clippings
in the green garbage can. His mother
would be home soon, he knew.
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