Tuesday, January 29, 2013

in the morning

He resigned with a puff from a wet nose. Out of the room, door shut (gently) behind him. He slinked to the soft part of the couch and rested his snout tight between his little feet. Another body would lay flush with her tonight, sleep to the mild breath and the kicks and the flips. In the morning they came out and made smells and heat and calm shuffles back and forth. They fed him rips of bread and salty meat. He waited for it (patiently), his heart a little faster at the sight of flat plates piled with redolence. Then the other body went out and shut the door behind him, and she sat down with a cup of steaming something until it was not steaming anymore. When he knew the rips were gone he rested his snout on her little feet. She sighed and made a string of whimpers and plosives. Like she did. Most he didn’t recognize. He turned his ears toward the sounds but found no instructions. So he went to sleep and the words she spoke out loud—was he sent to me as a gift? Or a punishment?—dissipated into the afternoon, without meaning, and he dreamed of cantering legs and her calling to him from far away.

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