two dimples, not perfectly round
teeth yellowed and
paws brown
from graves dug for small dead things
she wanted to hold, to keep
her nose
like a wet autumn
cool rain in the days before winter
(I will not remember it as
two nostrils
submerged in blood, taking her air)
she sung the way other
dogs would bark
her gifts
were always bigger than her
her toes still have their imprints
on my skin, sharp like
the needles
I hoped someone could save her with
but only she could do that.
she sleeps where she always did
barely underground
the earthworms
give her new whiskers, caterpillars
will share their fur
because hers is in a plastic bag
on my dresser and
her skin is where she
would want it, she dug her own grave
so I would know
she is always going to stay safe.
YOU ARE READING
opals
PoetryA gemstone made of a hundred different ones, a gemstone with fire inside. He never finished his cigarette, put it out on my palm. I became an opal. Flashes of red, pink, sweet petals of flesh. I will love myself as soon as I can learn to love the un...
