For My Smallest Friend

A little dark dog howls
as six cars blasting Cumbia drive by,
and the back of my knees are already
sticky.

Even though it is only 7am.

In the kitchen they grab wrists and
check pulses. She should have two
One for the past 30 years and one for
the next 70. Or so.

I keep waking up with some hazy thoughts
about missing
your birth
and feeling like I have never done anything right in my entire life.
I hear them in the grey hall lights. Saying
"She'll be okay...
spread her wings"

If I can give you one piece of advice, it is that these wings cause
blistered growing pains.
But I will be here,
for you to turn to. I will never tut-tut
in dusty tones
late at night
for people to be lying awake

straining to hear their names in the dark.