I limped for a year,
sharded heart sticking
my throat. Promised myself not
to drop the pieces. Shattered things
never glue back to the original.
But then the words “tiny female”
an uttered after-thought at the end of
a telephone call thrummed my skin.
Your photo followed.
I thought I recognized
you. One certain Saturday, you arrived after obstacles, delays and before I opened the door
I heard you cry. Pushed through
to get to you, bruised my arm,
saying words long unsaid “hey, babygirl, its okay babygirl.” You stopped crying as our
pairs of green eyes met.
I carried you upstairs,
Unlatched the crate. You spilled into my hands, my heart,
yours making room for mine, purred
against my throat in a space of my anatomy genetically designed just for you, my warming hands.
October undressed for November. Trees bare their bones to winter wind. Nights in the dark you light on my pillow. I lift the covers. You curl against my ribs. Mornings, after the bustle of feeding dogs, cats, fishtanks calms, I sit with coffee and
in my sweatshirt,
dog on my knees.
Sharded or not,
I throw myself all-in,
heart opened wide,
the only way to love.
Associate Editor Clare Songbirds Publishing House, Auburn NY
2018 Independent Book Award winner (poetry)
2013, 2018 CNY Book Award nominee
2016, 2018 Pushcart nominee