A Selection of Poems

Ode to a German Shepherd

Did Otto dream of his family

the first night he slept in our house?  

The press of their bodies still by his side.

The air warm and damp with their breath.  

Only to wake to the smell of a strange bed,

only to stumble to the silver water bowl, 

the kibble softened with unfamiliar milk. 

Family was all that mattered to him,  

a shining noun that drove him through the days.  

On forest walks, he charged up and down,  

herding us. I walked ahead, my mother behind.  

Otto could not bear the growing distance. 

If he had spoken, he might have said, 

You two. Work it out. But we never did.  

He moved across the unspeakable things   

and required no language, not even his name.  

In winter, I threw a stick out on thin ice.  

A betrayal. He skittered across the surface.  

It cracked under his weight. He plunged in,  

only to emerge sopping wet, fur flattened,  

the stick clenched in his jaw. Shivering. 

Returning to my side as if it were nothing. 

When I look back, he always seems to be 

forgiving me with those frank eyes,

shiny as the drops he shook into the air.

Ruptures

You’re basking outside in the sunshine—
a cup of tea, books, and a tatty pillow.
It’s nice to see some things stay the same,
though you wear your hair differently now,
and your freckles are more apparent.

A tub of peanut butter sits absently to one side.
Last year, I watched you eat it from a spoon
on a video chat, and was reminded of us
sneaking peanut butter from the kitchen
and spooning it straight from the jar.

When you were born, I remember the thrill
of skidding down hospital halls, pushing
through big double doors to get to you.
We threw ourselves across our mother’s stomach,
rupturing something. She stayed calm and pale
as she let us cradle you, taught us how to be gentle.

Sister, I slip your name into conversations,
though I have not told you anything in so long,
you, who once knew everything.
There seems to be no way for us to speak
without all the old hurt showing up,
making us both sound backward and ugly.

I cannot tell you what it means to be gentle,
back then, it was easy, keep still, support the head,
there’s just so much more to it now.

The Snow Spirit

I’ve only seen snow like this
in films, falling in sheets
over all the greys, browns,
pavements hidden
beneath its forceful quiet.

A Yorkshire Terrier
turns her face upwards,
her yellow raincoat,
a dash of vibrant colour,
hind legs lost in the drift,
paws in red booties.

Something so irresistible
about those booties,
red dots punctuating
the quiet.

A woman tugs her lead,
maybe work, maybe emails.

But this creature is resolute,
she will have—
snow going kiss, kiss,
wind going wahoosh, wahoosh,
footsteps going munch, munch.

It’s delicious.

She eats it up
in big white mouthfuls,
body shivering
as snow melts in her throat,
becoming one
with her tiny dog cells.

Her spirit takes up
the whole street.​