Jay Carson’s most recent poem to appear here was “Ha-Ha” (December 2019).

Press
By Jay Carson

we called the dog
my brother found on his paper route.

Even at twelve, I was terrified of dogs,
since the big collie next door
had chased, leaped, and dropped me
hard as a box of watermelon.

At first I was testing my fear
with that dog. Soon
I was trailing something more.

I fed him and cleaned up after him
and walked him and suddenly
was holding him close at night before bed.

Warm fur on the face, sloppy foam on my lips,
another’s heart beneath my hand.

My mother said he had to go,
and then I wanted him
more than I now recall wanting my first wife back.

This new ache of loss
made my eyes brim full, chest empty;
hopelessness ballooned like later when my son went away.

I never got another dog;
my friends who have them are appalled at my distance.
People think I’m afraid,
but the truth is, I learned to be nobody’s bitch.