Memento Mori: Shelter Dog
       

In the year without, I learn from the quiet
dog who watches me as I work and read,
follows me from room to room in my small apartment,
runs and whimpers in her sleep. We leave the building
only to walk in the park, the trees marking months
like hungry mouths. Outside, her nose interrogates
the dirt, smelling the city. Memorizing morning.
When the tulips arrive, she breathes beside their slanted stems.

In June, we walk among the tall allium—two bumps
betray botched healing of her broken tail. I tell her
I have not accepted my daughter's devastating damage
or the weekly seizures that render her speechless.
Watching her is the closest I will ever come to prayer.
Every night, the dog puts her head on my stomach and sighs.

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Copyright © 2022 Jennifer Franklin All rights reserved
from Beloit Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission