My husband embraces our little dog as
she flops baby-seal-like in his lap,
sun so bright on her head,
the tips of her black fur
iridescent to pink and purple.
She’s warm as a summer-plump berry.
Eyes blinking closed, open, closed.
Scents only a dog can sense,
her nose twitches like Samantha’s
on Bewitched before magic happens—
a breeze exactly cool enough for relief
rustles through the evergreen trees,
the wind speaks susurrus
& a chorus of birds chirrup love songs
on such an ethereal morning.
Eventually, we’ll rise from the bench,
from this moment’s eternity,
to escort our ailing little dog
to the vet’s office for a lethal injection
as my husband embraces her in his lap.
Lana Hechtman Ayers has shepherded over a hundred forty poetry volumes into print in her role as managing editor for three small presses. Her work appears in Rattle, The London Reader, Peregrine, One Art, Comstock Review, and elsewhere. Her latest collection, The Autobiography of Rain, is available from Fernwood Press.
