Christina Coates

Dog Days

The family dogs are all dead,
echoes of children abound.
I count the spots, sigh my longing.
They are a constellation dotted
with love. My empty ears insist on sound
but there are only echoes, the window rusting.

The wind on dog days, the small familiar pain,
a head beneath my hand,
tongues and smiles ever panting
open up my lonely land.
But the echoes remain
of loss, my memories shifting,

blueing the day bereft;
phantoms now on the right, on the left.


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