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