Did we bring it home with us?
Could we have stopped that strange dog from
slipping into her skin—
whimper lost at lunch
junkyard mean by dinner?
Were we the cause of the sadness?
It was everywhere:
the non-perishables,
the communion wafer,
Mike’s porn stash in the basement,
“Here Comes the Sun”
the only song you could play on guitar,
me
believing you could telepathically alter the TV.
Screaming mad, wild, every time you told me
I was named for a dead dog floating out to sea.
