it was winter,
I was queueing at the cinema, lost
in thought, I was thinking about dogs – the extra things
they see and smell and hear beyond our reach…
He wanted to get by, I hadn’t seen,
and so he moved me with the rolled-up newspaper
in his hand.
Startled – shifted – I looked at the paper
rolled-up tight, then at his eyes, cold, already locked
ahead and moving past me and I was sure, that in that
moment, I had thought so deeply of dogs
I’d transformed.
Ava, please don’t stress, I know pets aren’t
allowed here – honestly,
I’ve never even known a dog.
Once when I was walking home I saw
a small, quite fluffy dog beside its owner.
As I passed I met its eye and thought,
what a stupid little face,
I heard my brain annunciate the words, my mouth,
of course, was closed.
The dog began to bark, tugging on its lead,
gnashing its tiny teeth, growling…
The owner was shocked,
she’s never done this to anyone before.
Is there a digger under your house, Ava?
Hard not to think of them like buried pets.
Not dogs, but diplodocuses their arms like long necks,
raised.
Thousands of machine graves.
That uncle – my uncle – was an impressive man,
bodily I mean, broad and tall. A brick. A house.
His wife was mean and small.
They put his coffin on a gurney,
I guess to save his friends the struggle.
It looked odd to me,
I much prefer the carrying of men by men –
the gravity.
My uncle’s small, mean wife wore lace.
She’d paced about the house waiting for the hearse as
