-—THE MORNING’S GOT YOU ON THE ROPES, OH, AND LOVE IS A MURDERER, BUT IF SHE CALLS YOU TONIGHT, EVERYTHING IS ALL RIGHT

 

 

I Don’t Think I Told You

        about that hole in the back yard, the stubborn loamy clay, the way it fought to stay buried and unburdened beneath the lawn, how I threw my back out and then wrenched my neck, me with toddler-soft palms, approaching the job with deference, but workmanlike, huffing gritty air, chucking shovel loads, ignoring the root odor, ignoring the sting of blisters, and the stray rabbit and crows who’d come to eavesdrop, not letting up one bit even as I dropped you in the hole, covering it with clods of unforgiving soil, slapping the blade for compression, saying goodbye I’ll see you soon, you who was more dear to me than any friend, and surely not a dog at all.