Has leaked red sludge all morning,
dragged herself out
to the rug of grass. Wind chime, chainsaw,
birdsong. She will not take water. She’s old.
So sure of this spot that we know
not to drive to the vet. The air
smells like the iron of her blood. Like abattoir,
says the friend who is losing
her golden shadow, her hip’s familiar, love
that lumbered to the door for her,
loyal as a boulder—but this
isn’t slaughter, the dog sprawled on her side,
leftward, westward, legs in an arc
as if running. She hasn’t done that in years.
Doesn’t bark or whimper under
her worn blanket. A drought tongue,
map of crevices, spills over her mouth’s
obsidian ridge. We’re not sure of the instant
when—we think she has, until she yawns once,
gives an almost whistled sigh.
Then the brown eyes turn to aqueous
green marbles without centres. The friend’s
hand clings behind a velvet ear. A silence,
even if sound goes on. Bluebottles
come in fast. The dog’s still dimly
with us, warmth in her pale fur, and has also
found the aperture, bounding motionless
into that breathless there, dear
nosing navigator of the waysides,
edges, verges, tell us
where
