16.11.05

I thought of Sasha as a dark black hole in the world
Where my 8-year-old mind’s
Understanding of chaos stopped
And peace began, outlined thick in night.
She was a pocket of quiet and silence,
Not a dog to me. Never just a dog.

In the basement
We found dad, crouched near
Sasha, her elegant darkness
No longer so well-defined.
Now feathered
Somehow, against the world’s edges.

She’d been alive as long as I had.
As a toddler, I’d ridden her like a horse
Baby-fat legs flailing as she trotted around,
Patiently bearing my weight without complaint.
And sometimes I would curl up into her night-dark
Folds; by the fireplace, in front of the TV,
At the bottom of the stairs.

She wasn’t dead now, though.
Not really. Her fur still glittered
Under my hand as I traced
The soft and shining black.
I wasn’t old enough yet for her to be dead.

We put her in a box, like a package to be mailed.
Her favorite blanket accompanied her
On her trip to the Underworld.

We put her just under trees, stark against the overcast sky.
A dark boundary, limbs glowing, they
Encircled a field.

Even as my parents dug her grave
I stood silent and still,
Imagining that at any moment,
She would erupt from the box
And bound around us like a puppy.