Our dog died in the ugly disasterthat is aloneness. She died onthe first floor, in my sister’s apartmenton a makeshift pad shifted halfway
from beneath her. And I caught the centerof her dying, the shake, the after-bittongue swelling from her mouth.My girl. Good girl. She half-died alone
and finished with us there.My sister and I rubbed her sideand she shook and blinked then blinkedno more but breathed a slow breath
as I rubbed her head then kissed herforehead. Even in death she was mineto kiss. She was not ugly. Much likethe story of the boy from school
who was shot in the head and lived to talkabout it and lived to hear us all talk about it,the hole that needed the help of othersto close. And his neighbors around him looked
into the hole in…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, September/October 2021