Why I Don't Own a Dog

You look like a frightened puppy
hunched shoulders and shifting eyes.
Whispering as though i weren't watching you
circling, sniffing, marking your territory
all over my carefully cultivated garden.
A quivering yelp that sounds strangely like my name
is loosely buried under bulbs and earth
so painstakingly nurtured,
now turned over and reeking of your scent.
Watching me
as if i had a rolled up newspaper
behind my back,
or if with a swift kick, i'd call you "little bitch"
tell you to stop chewing my shoes, and wearing out the heel.
I'm sick of picking bits of your coat
out of my casseroles, and off my clothes.
As if leaving yourself all scattered over the couch
would be a pleasant reminder that you are here
to stay.

Not Anymore

I want to keep her.
That girl who is not me.
With her teeth still whole and uncracked
The skin of her thighs unstretched.
I get caught stealing backward glances in her direction
and look down ashamed while the heat of her yellow hair
cascading in the the xanthous light
still tingles
like a phantom limb against my cheek.

She still carries the kiss
On the upper-right hand corner of her lip
And her mind with its puzzling gilt boxes, each encapsulating the next
Still holds the innermost box, safe
unopened

I listen to the soft whisper of her footsteps
when i am enclosed in headphones.

She often stands silent at my shoulder
dropping strands of saffron into my tea
and wearing holes into the elbows of my sleeves
She makes the dust in the afternoon sun
glitter

But as months fall away
her golden luminance dulls
and the strands of yellow hair begin to thin.
She feels transparent, and out of place
like a lonely telephone pole
against a landscape of desert sky and joshua trees.
The more i grasp and clutch her towards me,
The more she fades into memory
This girl who is not me.
No, not anymore.