Tenebrae
As grief begins taking up residence
I look to my greyhound’s whitened face;
to her deft, anatomical tongue
swooping my cheek as if nothing
has changed;
to her headlong
patience; her flanks no longer
huntress-muscled;
nails like the chipped keys
of a saloon piano;
and to the old, old
sun preparing the hallowed square
of her winter-day sleep.
