In a bed of green grass the dog dozes.

As if rowing the sky overcast
her legs paddle air, and where

there is sunlight filtering in, she is
radiant. Her coat of fur newly washed is soft
as cotton swabs I use to cleanse her ears,
the corners of her eyes where sleep has congealed
into a stubborn mucus.

Watching her is like air threatening
a menacing storm, as now she growls
in her sleep, her feet still a fretwork
of activity, as if escaping a mob
vengeful against her sharp bite,
as if she is from a lineage of dogs
snarling on the same side of a water hose’s blast.

But what does she know of those times?

Her ears perk at shrapnels of noise.

Is it the sound of skin split open,
spilled blood in the concrete cracks
lugging on its back what has been wasted
to the gutters?

My knowledge of history becomes a language
translated by her nervous whimpering, and

unprovoked her body trembles

as I tremble
when anyone walks
across the future site
of my grave.