Cut through where I’ve drawn for you,
where the bb hit my ankle at 7. Where
my brother was slapped
for shooting it. Where the dog’s tail

meets his stomach as he curls
up in my childhood home. I left him
there, at the corner of the living room,
when the entire thing was eaten by fire. Yes,

it warms, it paints the walls
like red ivy. But, it can stomach
an entire bedroom of life. Of snow globes
from the capital. Picture books

smudged in places where our
fingers ran through most. Blankets
torn to shreds by the claws of something
stronger than something–the stubbornness of

a kid who doesn’t want to be anything
older. The fire takes it and chews.
When I return, I find nothing. This
is what it means to grow out of it. This,

and the creak in your bones, like old
hardwood under the weight of someone
else. Out of the ash, the dog trots,
the mess of yarn called a blanket

draped over his back, the snow globe
shaken in his eyes. My ankle creaks
as I reach for him, and he escapes.
I will never see him again.