Alan Bern, peaks, 2022
Digital photograph
We said we wouldn’t mourn so long this time, that we wanted
that kind of love, so the new dogs
come home two months after the old dog died. They don’t understand
leashes or walks, can’t figure out the stairs,
and so they sleep curled on the couch downstairs instead of with us.
One of them won’t eat when the other one
looks at him, and the other one steals his food. One of them is afraid
to be outside in the dark
and also of open spaces, the postal carrier, men with beards, our neighbor
standing in her yard, and garbage cans.
The new dogs carry their own griefs—owner sent to prison, six months
in a shelter, all their teeth ground down
from gnawing on bars. Outside they stop and stare at every SUV that passes,
waiting for the one that takes them home.
The old dog’s ashes circle in a polished wooden box on our dresser,
his blanket folded in the closet.
The new dogs have new blankets, leashes, plush beds. Evenings
they sit with us on the couch,
heads on our laps, eyes closed as we rub the soft fur of their ears,
all of us remembering.