Lost Dog, Beagle Vibes
I could take you, and maybe I should—
it’s dark outside; the next car might crush
you. I could save a life, but what
would it cost mine, you sweet needy
soft-eared thing? A puppy, but you’ll
grow. And what of the daily walks?
The midnight whining? Carpet piss? Staircase vomit
in which I might slip and break my neck, for fuck’s
sake. My daughter hoped we’d get a pet
once we left her dad’s house—not hoped, hopes;
works it into conversation like a joke
that’s only a joke if the answer’s still no.
What do you want for dinner? A dog.
Ha ha. Very funny. I don’t know how
to explain why I don’t want pets
(not even a fish) without making her think
I don’t love her. If I say I’ve got enough on my
plate, she’ll think I’d like to scrape it clean—
unload her mood swings & her messes.
Drop her on a curb somewhere—tagless,
uncollared—and drive away.
I just can’t.
But I don’t know how to tell my daughter
my heart only can stretch so far without snapping.
Far enough for her, but not for you,
you bedroom-eyed burden with your dark-wet
mouth. I’ve come too close to death already
in the jaws of something
that began by meretriciously
laying its head on my lap,
and looking up as if to say, Please—
you’re the only one good enough
to save me.
Francesca Leader is a writer originally from Western Montana. Her poetry and CNF have been published in Hooligan, Club Plum, Identity Theory, Sho Poetry, Door is a Jar, Stanchion, Literary Mama, Poetry New Zealand, and elsewhere. Her debut poetry chapbook, “Like Wine or Like Pain,” is available from Bottlecap Press.