The dog curls
on the star-specced rug,
an aurora borealis.
Invisible to the naked eye.
She gave up eating her own tail
right after you tied your shoes
for the seventh time.
It’s a wonder of the world
how she knew which one of us
was taking off.
Maybe she could smell it on me
like gold dust or predawn tumors.

There are wild dogs in Moscow
that board the Tube every morning
to commute to a better place,
a place of sausages and good smells.
They are always home before
nightfall. There are a thousand
reasons why. I don’t know any of them.

You think I am coming back.
The sun rises from an odd direction.
This is the wind of the godless.
It lifts the ears of the sleeping dogs.
Unwhorls the world into a
narrow line of light.
I sniff sorrow on the stairwell.
My tongue tastes of madness
and the fur of traveling packs.
I know my way home only
in the uncurling of my body,
the press of my nose to another’s flesh.



Image taken with iPhone.
Words written at Chocolati.
Time Taken 5 minutes.
Brain on the chocolate fish with potato chips inside.

note: All poems for the month of April are memoir poems in the form of lists

This entry was published on April 30, 2012 at 12:42 pm and is filed under April, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: