my dog is dying
the smell of the open sore
fills the apartment until I have to cover my nose with a pillow.
you and I eat meat, salad, and potatoes,
bloody and french
and a candle burns at the end of the wick.
he lays at my feet/i wrap my arms around you from behind
i kiss you and it feels like a vigil
but we wait.

when you and i used to lay in my bed facing each other, i would trace your face with my fingers
so i wouldn’t forget it.
wishing I could open you up like a pomegranate,
run a fine-toothed comb through your hair until you were totally clean,
and i knew everything.

when you would look at me
and say nothing,
sometimes i would say, what are you thinking about?
if you'd have asked me what i was thinking about i would’ve said:

1. my friend held her ex boyfriends hand and drove him home when she was back in san
   francisco

2. and today on the plane back to new york i watched an old woman take her husband's
   coat off;

3. and my mother put on white noise for her husband when he was sick and couldn’t sleep,
   and she fed him soup from a mug, and he went back to bed.

4. now, amanda sleeps on the floor with the dying dog, and i tell you that you’re hurting me
   again.

we lie in wait, and to ourselves
buy black towels and ignore the smell.
holding our breath for the end of the wick
but I trade a tender injection for a frenzied last kiss,
lethal, merciful
guttering
out.