My life lives in the hills, this
pleasure in details perhaps
makes me a miniaturist. Our
dog, in her blood flows Terai
still shivers up above the valley.
Your love belongs to the high
altitudes. It flowed from your
toes, resting under the dog’s
fawn belly. Warming her innards,
while you fed her ripe oranges.
She spends her days, wagging,
panting, moving from room to
room, in search of your toes. I
struggle to explain in mutt tongue.
Dogs, do they understand death
Better than abandonment? Unlike
her, I comprehend only your details.
Like those two strands of gentle,
vanishing gray are sharper to my
memory than the river of black.
The sun is out today, and you
become the invisible silhouette,
she keeps checking under her soft,
nearly furless belly for your toes, as
I hound you in my lines, my poetry.