“Soft Death” by B. Bergin-Foss

My youngest asks for a hamster,

but she doesn’t know what kind of pet

a hamster is, doesn’t understand they come 

caged, little hands desire fuzzy touch; little 

hands become the stair-step; little hands 

forget to close the window, keep the cold out.

You tried to revive Lucy, the months-old

Teddy Bear hamster I received for my birthday, 

awaiting her Desi in a plastic cage, 

or cornering herself in the freedom plastic ball.

You wrapped her frozen body in a dish towel, 

told me, “Everything will be okay,” oven turned 

to preheat, you held her lifelessness above 

the warming coils. I still see the propped door, 

your careful hands, nails painted Rockstar Pink, 

blurry through my endless ten-year-old tears.

My youngest has asked for a hamster.

I had stared back through the rearview mirror

seeing me in her bright eyes, remembered 

the toilet paper roll tunnel, the cage removed 

from the living room, the emptied ball inside,

the towel-wrapped truths I have been told,

but the mom I am doesn’t tell my five-year- 

old that she can have a pet hamster,

doesn’t tell her nine-year-old sister that she 

is better suited for the job;

They do not need a hamster 

to teach them about soft death. That’s what 

the unnamed chickens out back are for,

even then, there is nothing soft about a heart— 

no matter the size—

that stops beating.

About B. Bergin-Foss

She/Her/Hers

B. Bergin-Foss enjoys the burn in her lungs after a long run, allows her mind to cloud dance for inspiration, and believes saving honey bees is important work. She has been teaching middle school for the past 15 years, and lives in Carbondale, CO with her family, backyard chickens, and two colonies of honey bees. She is an MFA candidate in the nature writing program through Western Colorado University. Her work has been featured in Colorado Central Magazine.