The Death of a Poet's Dog

We never spoke—
Oh sure he sang,
and that was pure
joy – but for 13 years we slept
his snout against my head
never leaving my side unless
I sneezed, or began to make love,
and then always with a look of disdain
for my human
failings.

But there is no end
to the enumeration
of the private pleasures
between animals

the point is
he gave me words—
those nights we walked alone
in the hollow grove,

my thoughts honed
on my loneliness,

the leash tugging
would remind me
of a world outside.

Or the times I left the house
suddenly, slamming the door
before that inquiring look
(head cocked, ears
primed for listening),
I had to think—just
for that second—
of what I was weighing
against staying
with love.

 

© Karen Alkalay-Gut