This Dog
Maybe I’ve chosen life—not just
the life of this dog I’ve rescued
from the shelter, but
my own life, mired in the same
books—Anna, Elizabeth,
Jane, the same
solitary walks– no tugging–
the doctors’ offices changed now
to cacophony at the vet’s.
I’ve chosen disruption and broken
sleep and the poetry of barking–
what does each growl mean?
how to parse the hidden syllables
of dogs, this dog? Maybe
it wasn’t a choice at all.
4 AM
I was the child until
my mother died;
now I’m the child again
afraid in the night
and sleep as elusive
as the past I cling to.
Old age is all
about saving what’s left–
my father’s heavy watch,
each tick a heartbeat,
my mother’s initialed handkerchiefs
still scenting the drawer.
Buttons without
their button holes.
Combs with missing teeth.
I try to keep awake
all day, to sleep at night,
with only the dog
for company– his weight
at my feet holding me
to the earth.
But the sheets are tangled ghosts
waiting to dress me
in their ironed robes.
