They are so small—

the tender boniness beneath their fluff, like magic

in our hands. We collect them, after

the popped balloons, the cake,

the tear of wrapping paper,

but their warm purrs pour through our fingers too soon,

so we decide to keep them all

in one soft gathering, inside

the old humidor.

We are taking turns

with the curving latch, its pleasing little click,

when the mothers come, and the party ends,

and the friends leave in a bustle of last laughing chatter,

and then it is only my mother and me, singing

as we clean up crumbs and paper cups.

And then she asks,

Where are the kittens, and I remember,

and I go to the cabinet,

and open it.