Years we lived close to the bone

By | 5 December 2019

When the dog died, I woke up with a mouth
full of fur. I think she would get a kick out of that
but it takes hours to will myself from bed.
More to endure the morning, to not
fill her bowl or carry her to the yard
where she’d muster a few three-legged steps
before plopping down, exhausted, and I’d lift
her to my shoulder, her big disappointed eyes like,
Can you believe this shit?

The way our bodies just give up?

She is more than just an animal.
How do I tell you I held her every day
of her life, that caring for one small dog
made me live when I didn’t want to live?
I listen now for her scold of a bark,
follow the sound, follow the sound
into another day and do it all over again.

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