to walk, slowly, all soft fur
—I will not detach
from her body. Mountainous
lesions grow, now over her eye.
I have to remind myself
to slow my steps with her.
Last night, I lay down next
to her muted body
on the kitchen floor–
a pilot of islands
or her tail feathering
across the green grass–is it her body
or mine? The truth is,
she has already detached.
She just wants to sleep
in the cool earth of the garden.
This morning, she and I set out walking
at Fair Haven Fields. Could not reach
her watering place, Denny’s Pond.
She stopped, looked behind her
for my son. He carried her to the car
at the edge of the woods.
Now, at my feet, her body is stately,
& whole–beyond confusion,
cloud sleeping under the table–
twitch of her dreaming, legs still running.
