Another morning and the dog is laid up—
tendon that burst like an overripe tomato,
sutures, a jagged scribble on her haunch, bandage
near her vulva where a fatty tumor excised
since we’re knocking her out anyway. She’s ripped,
tattered like a worn stuffed animal, crying
a morphine-addled song, high and tight, strung out.
Meanwhile, upstairs my husband fingers the Martin
like an arc-angel, riffs of sharp and holy rain
drag me under choppy waves. He’s the same savage
front man I met in the 90’s at the Owl and Monkey Café,
Adam’s Apple scaling the brown fortress of his throat,
eyes shut in electric euphoria. My body brambles,
butters, relents, and I slip past the confines
of my known self into molecules and muster.
Three decades of marriage and I still burn for the music
I can’t touch any other way. The dog curls against
my sternum, exquisite pressure, her drummer’s heartbeat
precise, constant. I sync my breath to her breath,
to the dilation of sound shuddering wooden floors,
know this is how we are all stitched right, prickle
of fur on my lips, clear aching notes that carry me.
