POETRY
By Summer Hardinge
When she writes, Ya need dogs for company,
I almost feel as if I need to own one.
As a child, I could tame any rambunctious pup, wild cat,
or tenacious pony. Something like an empathetic nerve.
The dogs in my neighborhood sense it, too. When my next-door friend
gets a glimpse of me out her window, or hears my voice, she leaps from chair
to sofa to windowsill, pulling down lamps, skittering
across the coffee table. When she spies
me across the yard, she rushes in, shimmying,
tearing at the leash, getting tangled,
and pees on my shoes. Down the street, another skirts
oncoming traffic to crash into me, knocking me side-
ways. And when the one who lives on the next cul-de-sac jumps
to lick my face, my down coat shreds. His owners write
an apology letter and send a check. It’s not just about the damage, I write back,
it’s about being a relentless witness to poetry,
when something pulls on the vagus nerve, deep in the cortex.
I feel it when I resist, but I am animal, I want an open palm,
to witness touch.
Photo by Patrick Hendry.
This story originally appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 19. Support local booksellers and independent publishers by ordering a print copy of the magazine.