When I found your dog running free
on the shoulder of the road—that winding
two-lane so far into the hills
under Mars—I stopped my car
and spoke sweetly to him
so he hummed through the harp of his ribs
and smiled with his dripped-dry tongue.
I took him home.

He bore your tag. But somehow,
before your eventual arrival, he disappeared
again in a dark so far from streetlights,
into the wild of ridge and canyon.
This is how we live, here.

If he'd been running deer, does this
make all of us guilty?
I wake in the night, listening
for coyote, bobcat, owl;
at dawn I'll look for the silent
fall of dog-prints in dust.

Between your home and mine,
between the plates full of kibble
and the silver bowls of water,

your dog is running.
Shall we split the difference?
Half a dog for you, the half
that lies quiet at your feet; and
the part that can't stop
running, mine.

The one live puppy moans
and suckles, grunts and moans.
What's a puppy in the womb?
A dead weight. What's the weight
of seven puppies not yet delivered,
with one wedged like a block
across the tomb
of the birth-canal?

It lobes down her abdomen,
sags the corner of her eye.
That eye turns toward you
with its rim of white
blind panic.

Like any dog, she grew up
bright-eyed; you, her master,
were a sun to put the sparkle
there. That was before
this death-in-birth began;
and you, her master, helpless
to enforce the command: Come
out alive.

The light of her eyes is leaking
inside. It's hiding out
in her organs that are failing,
x-rays layering shadows.
She won't eat, her body consumes
everything she's been: the sparks
of puppy wonder, hunger, chew-
bone of wanting.

Belly-heavy, she sways on stiff
legs, her feet splay out
for balance. Door to water-dish,
window-draft to shade, she accepts
our hands as if from strangers.
We call her "good dog" anyway,
as light goes leaking, white to
black, a negative.

Daylight cuts,
the sharpest ray.