I wonder if other dogs think poodles are members of a weird religious cult.
Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.
INCEPTION She asks, wants him to be the first. As if the other were a ripened peach, easily bruised, they time their movements to the ancient pulse of hearts then seas. Sharp tears through hidden flesh steal her breath. They stop, begin again, relentless clock counts towards curfew. Soothed by his hot sweet breath, she rests in his embrace— linear time shifts to the relative distance between innocence and experience— she arches, accepts whispers fingers lips as he eases her through surmountable pain. Her chrysalis rips, new life emerges: the harsh sun scent of clary sage wings drying in a warm breeze.
Thank you to the editors of Hot Flashes: sexy little stories and poems for first publishing this poem.
The world would be a nicer place if everyone had the ability to love us as unconditionally as a dog.
Look where your feet are planted, and bloom where you are.
Unknown yet variations by many
DREAMING OF GRAM It was the way her eyes rolled as she flashed her pack of cigarettes while I was explaining the impact of environmental illness, as if anyone who acknowledged the body’s needs, who didn’t do what they wanted despite physical limitations, was a whiney little roach as evidenced in her smoking while sporting an oxygen tank for advanced-stage emphysema— I’d had it with the family code of fuck-your-body- till-it-drops exemplified by our matriarch so I got in her emerald eye-shadowed face framed with brilliant orange hair and said: I don’t like you and if you want me to feel anything positive about you when you die, you need to demonstrate a shred of decency now then I stepped to the other side of the bed. Perhaps she rose from where she’d crouched between bed and wall and left, but for me, she disappeared.
Thank you to the editors of riverbabble for first publishing this poem.