Like Jesus in a hologramic postcard
Nothing settles cleanly around
Night-diffused mothball, porchlight to window
screen to porchlight to window screen to
porchlight to throat. I’d think I’d
been handed down some private
relief, some weird combo of tenderness
and terror, rendering me stunned and
milked from each harm already
done to me. My old dog and I trust in our
small joys, leashed or bewitched.
I nurse each bright tremor he makes.
Who taught to read the omens
to whom? Snapping shut before
the thumb moved, leaving dust on
my nail’s split moon,
burden of hunger mistaken for
what we were owed.
In that forgiving dark,
he still noses this
pilgrim from the bulb. Holds its
body under his tongue, then
carries it whole to me. I
should have known to break
when every little thing
from the dirt, the water, the clouds
went quiet all around me.