When I arrived, she had been alone
with the body for three weeks: her mother
a puddle on the bathroom floor, water
still running in the sink. Jenny found
bologna and old yogurt in the kitchen
trash, socked it away in the fridge to eat
a slice and a spoonful a day. When the smell
overwhelmed her, she buried her face
in the laundry heap, sucking in whiffs
of stale sweat and perfumed cuffs. Of course,
I didn’t know this then, didn’t know
how she’d turned her bedroom into a toilet
to spare herself the sight of all that blood,
how she’d fed her gnarled tabby as best
she could, then buried it beneath the potted
fern. Six years later, she tells me all this,
tells me she doesn’t remember the police
kicking in her door or the flash and whirr
of cameras as I carried her outside,
how she shoved her face against my sternum
so hard I felt her screams hum in my chest.