The young girl in the faded
album photo holds her German shepherd
puppy, both their eyes glinting toward
something ephemeral as afternoon light.

Now, years later, I am bent next to
my wife over the grown version of that dog
seizing in her bed, all four legs paddling, stiff
as wood, jaw clenched to take the end of her tongue.

It is deep at night when the quiet is different
than the afternoon, the weight of sleep
so great it's as if no one could help another.
The dog convulses as if some angry god

is yanking her soul by a leash, eyes glazed
like wet pavement. Our hands comb
her deep black fur as though we might pull
her back, trying to catch leaves from the wind

and when our fingers touch, we know the love
for this animal is as great as worship.
I'm mumbling under her jackhammer breath;
the end must be a near edge.

My eyes are closed when I feel
the sky outside break, the gods and ghosts
recede, leaving the three of us
washed against the shore alive.

Volume 1, Issue 1, 2006