I leave you listed as my partner
on Facebook
for the same reason you keep
Dusty’s cone-shaped collar
from the vet’s in your attic,
white plastic gaping
on the floor near a shaft of light,
dust motes swimming
toward heaven.
It isn’t that I’m lying about you,
as much as lying
about that dream I still fold myself
into—and you, I think, still love
the gentle race dog
hobbling on three legs,
still miss being
her protector, the one who
makes things right.

Storyscape Literary Journal

and Sober Cooking