Today's poem is by Anemone Beaulier

Good Girl
       

My husband had dogs as a kid.
We bought a house with a yard, adopted a lab mix
who whimpered at the door when, a week on,
my husband left for work in Columbus.

I sponged piss from the tiles,
praised the dog for squatting in the bushes,
took her to obedience class, vet appointments,
massaged in ear-drops, clamped her jaw over pills,

walked her while pregnant/with a baby in a pack/
a tot in a stroller and baby in a pack/
baby and tot in a stroller and preschooler running ahead
in a heatwave, a tropical depression,

picked poop from the yard so the kids wouldn't tread in it,
mopped vomit when the dog ate dirt while uprooting tulips,
scrubbed bloody tracks from every carpet in the house
after she chewed her paws raw as I ran errands.

Fifteen years—five thousand
days—on my hands: blood, vomit, piss,
shit hot and soft through grocery-bag plastic.
Told her age, people insist, "You're lucky—blessed."

My husband returns from the office, pats her head
as he riffles through cabinets for chips, pours a gin,
murmurs, "Good girl, that's my good girl,"
as he flips through mail I've fanned on a dish.

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Copyright © 2023 Anemone Beaulier All rights reserved
from Main Street Rag
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission