“childhood dogs”
For my husband
when i wonder at this newfound fear of
dying, it’s because my fear is tied to loving
you. & this hopeful fear, to me, is like the
single thrift store teacup on our window-
sill housing a small plant, which will
die, but after that it becomes a soap dish,
& after that a holder for drying spoons,
& then an apple-cinnamon scented
candle, a decoration, a place to warm
hands at 3 pm coffee breaks. it is now
chipped, run through the dishwasher
too many times, faded, stained in-
side, but still roomy. the small, purple
price tag’s spot isn’t even sticky any-
more, & no one can remember who
bought this mug, or if it belonged
to a larger set, which got lost along
some move or broken in some forgotten
box—maybe in the basement or the attic?
its relatives are never found. loving life
after so many years of depression is
like waking up to find that all your
childhood dogs are dead & that they
are being reborn in you every single day.