when you came home my
dog had already died and
the gold in my eyes had gone out,
but it’s okay. you were never good
at watching the tide go out.
besides, i discovered that
only way to walk this floor is to just
lie here, breathing, and kind-of-not-really
either sobbing or laughing
i buried her next to where your five-year-old goldfish
is respectfully interred
and where the weeds are similarly growing over the bones
of a golden retriever named boomer who was hit by a car
and the collar of a grey cat named ghost who was hit by a car and
the suicide note i hid that apologized for getting
hit by a car
but it’s okay
you weren’t there. it shouldn't hurt. we could always
order a new puppy in the mail. there’s plenty of them.
don’t worry. sometimes i think i’m sad as a decoration
rather than as a disease. you could always order a new poet
at starbucks. there are plenty of us. i’m sorry
that when you came home
i didn’t have the strength to stand up.
the dog died of cancer,
see. i spent the last five months handfeeding her
boiled chicken and white rice and cleaning up
the blood and vomit she left behind. i did not hold her paw
when we killed her with kindness. she hated having
her feet touched.
i know the gold has gone out and so has the fire. i sold it off
so i wouldn’t have to see you
every time i looked in the mirror. it’s okay.
you only went to the ocean when the tide was in. you said you
didn’t like watching the water leave things stranded.
you would have hated to see her
it’s okay. it’s been okay ever since i learned how to lie about stuff.
i know why you left. i am just upset i could not
somebody always has to stay behind
and take care of the dying dog.