I Have Never Slept with an Animal
       

I have never slept with an animal, so it is
a dream from which I wake: the small bulldog
jumping on the bed, scrumbling the sheets,
stepping onto my face. His forepaws knead
my cheeks. His tongue dangles at my nose.
He noses my hair. He pauses, stares.
He pants, his meaty heart close to mine, this
short-legged, flat-faced dog
that sleep has conjured to wake me, wake me
so I have no choice but to breathe
the doggy breath, to meet the rheumy eyes,
brown-flecked-with-gold like the doors
on a Hepplewhite cabinet built to feature
the wood's grain, sprays of rings recording
years of much rain, years of little rain,
except that this dog, emissary from the deep,
will not be still, will hide nothing from sight.
It is warm, pulsing, demanding, demands
that I wake, I wake now, yes, now, in a new way.

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Copyright © 2019 Suzanne Cleary All rights reserved
from Crude Angel
BkMk Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission