- Poetry - My dogs are dead –
the elder lived his life and died peacefully at the vet. The younger – my companion – seizured in my arms, eyes rolling up to look at me (one last time) (a plea I couldn’t appease) as the sedative drugs (and my limited human capacity) betrayed him; after six months of killer kidney failure; he was nine – cut short… …no pun intended. I tell parents my baby died and they scoff – what could I know of love? I tell friends, acquaintances my best friend died and they rebuff – what could I know of love? I tell partners my soul mate died and they chuff – what could I know of love? I cling to wooden urns, carved with intricate flowers – on the backs of boxes their names scrawled in Sharpie, my tears willing cremated dust into dogs, into lumps of weighty flesh to comfort as I scream, and I cry myself to sleep as their ashes bay to me, “You know so much about love.” |
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May 2020
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