Threshold

The jagged trail of pee
    starts on the porch mat's
        rough weave, crosses
            the foyer into the front room
                and ends on the rug
                    brought from Turkey.
                What can she mean?
            My dear oldest dog, trained
        these twelve years to outside
    and inside, has always been
clear about rules, no shredded
    books in her history, not
        a single mangled shoe.
            But here she's let flow
                behind my waking
                    back, speaking her language
                        of potent scent and boundary
                    on this day of all days
                when I'm to be measured
            and charted, the distance
        from heart to lung
calibrated, from lymph node
    to rib, the threshold of my
        body crossed and re-crossed
            so radiation can scour my cells.
                Ceilidh knows the boundaries
                    have changed. She sleeps by
                        my bed and we breathe
                            through each other's dreams.
                        Perhaps because I've made
                    no offering to the gods,
                done no threshold ritual
            of my own, she is marking
        the moment. Mop all you want,
    she seems to say as I run
for the bucket and sponge.
    Now this world is in you
        and you are in this world.

Copyright © 2009 Kathryn Kirkpatrick All rights reserved
from Cave Wall
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission