You overslept this morning but did not die.
Unfolded, you fix your milky gaze
and push me toward the lawn,
even now, a cattle dog.
I study you,
account for your meals, your naps.
Applaud your misdeeds: the loaf of bread,
straight from the table, the dampness on the floor,
puffs of fur across the room,
down the hall.
This afternoon you dream and we
both relive your undisciplined past.
Leaping into the air, gaining
on a deer. You bound exuberant
into the house, hindquarter
of a rabbit dangling from your mouth.
Your shoulders twitch, your legs
strum against floor.
I smile and watch,
just as I did when there were still acres
and acres between here
and the road.
–
Melody Wilson teaches in Portland, Oregon, where she lives with her husband and three dogs. Her poetry has received an Academy of American Poets Award and some smaller awards. Recent poems appear in Visions International, West Trade Review, Triggerfish Critical Review, Failbetter, and Briar Creek Review.