The Order of Things
The Order of Things (in progress)
‘Momma, I love you’ is whispered in every corner,
every place that is dark, light, in the cobwebs up high,
the dust in the corner, a swirl of unswept dog hair, granola bar
wrapper, spilt OJ dried, sticky, forgotten, unflushed toilets,
too much paper used, a costume abandoned, hair brush about
to fling itself off the table from overuse, full of tangles of mousy
hair, tangled words and meanings, meaning one thing and then another
doors ajar, bed clothes on the floor, undrained bathtubs, little toothbrushes,
sippy cups in my kitchen drawer.
‘Momma, I love you’ is shouted again and again, drowning out
my other life tucked in journals, in blue pen, in another drawer,
silent, waiting for this version to pass by, quiet, knowing it’s place
in the order of things.
Like the dog who stepped aside the day I brought that curious baby home curled in a carseat, smelling like me but not quite.
He knew the order then: how that child, now crying for milk, pressed more than that afternoon walk.
He knew his turn was over, his moment of importance, gone,
at least until the child resolved to claim him as her own, lay love on his aging body, and cry at his passing.
for Shannon Mucha, myself and all the other Moms who have also loved dogs...