Spoiler
My dog just died, and I really just wanted to get all my emotions down on paper before they dried up too much. This is a poem I wrote in her honor, so critique it however you like.
Fur pressed against cold tiles
and concrete, a kitchen floor
and half-full, empty water dish,
wet light dripping from the
ceiling and our eyes; outstretched
hands and fingers, cold, dead
limbs spread across the barren...
tearstreaks lining our faces,
face, and a mother's caring lick
upon her forehead.
What does it matter
that these legs moved in the trees
so long ago, running hand in
weathered paw, towards the final
breath that choked the horizon,
choked the tears from our eyes,
in regret? That grass was not
brushed softly against her legs?
This is the time we were waiting
for, the time we knew would
kill us, drown us, and yet this
paw in my hand, this spirit leaking
into the air brings only sorrow.
I knew her once. I knew the bones
that lie beneath our feet. She would
swim in lakes between forests,
wander amidst the broken pieces
of homes, laugh with the homeless
rodents that dwelt between her
two worlds. I knew her.
She was a good dog...
good....
And we know it is over when the
panting stops, and the tail wags
eternally, beating against our chest
and eyes, as our emotions sleep
once more.
