You watch the dogs out the window
playing, the daughter hanging
from her mother’s ruff, the bitch
pinning her to the swelling ground
to crush this morning’s newest
daffodils. You think, the old
dead dogs have pushed up
daffodils again. You planted
them in honor. Under soil
they jostle, shove, and multiply.
So many lidded bulbs, the tips
and shoots, more room to grow
down there, you think,
than in the yellow eye
of April. But the mother dog
has found a twig to dance
away from her daughter,
for this chance, the chase.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
