Mojo
I defecate on three raisin size ticks sunk in the bowl
I try not to hate
but I hate ticks, these
who clung to the skin over bones
of my dying hound.
I gently rub along his ribs, not too hard
his hips, his gentle dignified nose
which still turns his head
on our slow slow walks, I
pick up each ear and scan
for a parasite, I freeze
on a thought of Mojo
out in the evening, gone too far,
curling down in a round of grass
and I cry.
But he’s not dead yet, I coaxed
a bit of food into his mouth this morning;
perhaps yesterday was not the last time
he will stand in the river
sniffing the wafting scents from the other bank.
Last night I woke to hear Mojo stir from his bed
get up like a new born colt, all legs
throwing his head as a weight, all motion down to intent,
I thought to gather a blanket around my shoulders,
go lie with my dog. But I haven’t yet.
Maybe tomorrow.
mh north 11/6/2016
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