Feb. 2017
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"Moon Collar"
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It was snowing when my dog decided he would die.
My mother says he just curled up in the powder and looked at the moon.

I wasn't there,
I was at school,
but I like to imagine that right then
the light narrowed on him
like a monologue, with no words.
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I don't think dogs like to die with the pack.
The smell of them rotting brings trouble in the wild,
which is beautiful, pragmatic,
not sparing us grief, only danger.
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They got him inside and he lived for two more months,
a tumor like a softball, mangling his steps.
I wonder how he felt, betraying his instinct,
if it had been something brave, or if he even knew of bravery at all.
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Like I said, I wasn't there,
but I do sometimes see it, if I try:

Him, a black comma on the driveway,
a gap in the white of the snow and two eyes,
and my mother, standing at the door,
calling him, over and over.

I do not know if he got up himself
or if they carried him in,
and I do not know which I prefer.