Curl

Each curl of conversation
stills my tongue, half-sentences
stranded in the mire
of biting reason

words silently form
protests, defenses
reasons and intentions

worthless to ears already fed
with the insistent conundrum
accompanying every attempt
at reconciliation.

Old Dog

He grows more beautiful every day
his wizened face, yellow coat
fading to white. He is both stately
and goofy in equal parts, a loving soul
who never had an enemy, human or beast.

Last fall it was hard to tell he wasn’t a puppy,
now he’s eleven, seventy-seven in dog years,
his hips stiffen during the night and into morning,
though after coffee, he’s still up and begging for a walk.

I put my hand on his chest; feel his heart, gently
rocking under my palm. I whisper in his ear, ask
him to stay with us a while longer -

he sighs, deeply, resonantly.