Mar 14

I Had a Dog.


Sleeping in a pet cemetery, I hate small spaces
My friend with all the life, during her declining years.
In the new world, no dog anymore licked up my tears

Her geriatric form, with sensible slowness
always gentle, she dragged herself up the final rungs
labrador ears, proud otter tail, four feet moving.
Too sturdy and solid to understand death, nosed open the unused latch.

Fistfuls of her fur, soft as I remembered
rank breath on my face
massive, wide-set shoulders, tail beat against my headboard

Dear diary, come back for me,
if you leave we'll see you soon
My arms pass right through, cut across the panel of moonlight.