The dog (God, I wrote god the first time). The dog wants to know if we can go out.
She wants to know if I’m coming home. She sends me text messages in the shape of O====O
bones and leaves the sound of her dragging the leash on my answering machine.
No. Who has an answering machine anymore? Not me. And still I hear her husky howl saying, “I love you. I love you.”
Lately, she’s figured out how to mouth, “I know you’re there. Please pick up.”
Snowballs arrive unannounced in my far-off fridge, perfectly round and fetchable. The teeth indents are almost impossible to see through the layers of frozen sadness, but they’re so easy to feel.
I don’t know where she learned. Any of it. Certainly not from me. I’ve never held my own collar bone in my mouth and begged anyone to come back. We’re the same like that, always have to be the one in front, going toward. A mirage was enough to mush us through.
We were the same like that.
Now she’s become dog and I’ve become god. Or maybe she’s the one with all the power.
The wrong word always shows through the falling down. I can’t remember how to remove the simplest marks.
Image taken with iphone
Words written on the big leather chair, with snow falling outside
Time Taken 15 minutes?
Brain on work, sex, freedom, love, lunch
Ears on the sound of my mouth