Barking at Twilight
By Sarah Rosenblatt

 

My dog is gone
but the dog with the strange
asthmatic bark across the street
continues on
out of breath,
out of shape,
not yet a fugitive
leaving in whiffs of exhaust.

 

My dog’s curled lip
stays with me
is imprinted on my deepest, quietest,
most loving hemispheres,

his royal tail
cascading downward
with malice towards none.

.

Mitzvah’s REM

 

The puppy so nice and warm. So, at peace on my shoulder as she sleeps
drifting in a dream that makes her twitch. So real this little living being.

 

She thinks nothing of her
floppy ears, brown eyes.
This jumping, licking,
spontaneous baby
sharing warmth, love,
no vanity, as she doesn’t see herself
as separate from others.

 

Later she goes deep into the covers so she can cut out
light and sleep quietly and calmly,
take her place in unknown brain activity
going back and forth in her eyes.

.

 

Sarah Rosenblatt from US is a poet and therapist specializing in intergenerational trauma. She holds an MFA from Brooklyn College and an MSW from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. Sarah’s poetry has been published in myriad journals including Ploughshares, Poetry East, Heartland, The Portland Review, The Brooklyn Review, and others. She is the author of three books of poetry published by Carnegie Mellon University Press.