willow st.

powdered post midnight has me wishing i remembered the feeling of missing a pet.
i remember watching one die on a veterinarian’s table, foam along the gums exposed by the fantastically taunt lips of terminal arrest.
there were pangs of domesticity in those days. one bedroom flat with three souls sharing a bed, one at the foot and two full the length. i played the patriarch, keeping cool while the youngest failed to function, while mama jerked with sadness across the room. she threw herself recklessly and my frame, built with flexibility, utility, and dexterity, was there to catch with meditative, monolithic calm. we drove home and together missed the imprint at the foot, the little place on willow st. one soul down and two to go. time phantom scratched the bedposts until we warranted pack our things and leave down the narrow staircase with one turn, convinced we were capable of jilting loss. the success of which is measured in this yawning fog by my inability to find the echo of hurt anywhere within me.

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