Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

The Eyes of Dogs

I don’t want to see her.
Or her friend.
Or anyone.
I am tired of calls and lockboxes
and accepting less than I should.
I am not grass.
I am not seed.
I am not shit.
The water that laps at my door
is unquestioning.
Drink.
Yes.
Drink.
There is so much emptiness in all of this.
This life.
I see faces crying in China
and hands asking why.
I see the eyes of dogs
begging me for salvation
but I have none.
I haven’t smiled in months.
I haven’t found the joy
in the first day of Spring.
I have wandered on the hill in search of him.
Always coming down alone.
At dinner I sat and rattled on about nothing
trying to fill the silence.
Now I am embarrassed.
I want to run in the field
alone
and call his name.
I want to walk with him and no one else.
I tell myself it will be different in Portland.
I can start again
and forget,
but I don’t think
my asking price is low enough
for someone to accept a pink bathroom
and take the last forty years
with them.