Leash

"The Thing," by Samuel Bischoff

Leash

Here is how I become the beginning of my son’s story
He gets heavier and every day my body is a little less
my own My belly twitches rabbit-like and I think of
the 3D ultrasound where the nurse pointed out his open
eyelids Whatever he sees in that darkness I hope it comforts
him Because we are shaped into humans alone
in a friendly room the self gathers strength One day
he will tell a person that he loves all about his parents
Oh, you would think that coffee and tea were sacred
for how much they dote over it He laughs at us
and how we are What I do now is food chain fodder
for the future This boy will teach me how to loosen
my leash to the self I have always walked in

Leash

Leash

A woman walks by the cemetery,
holds a barrel-chested bulldog
in her arms. The red leash draped
between them slaps her hip
when she walks.

What happens near the cemetery
seems significant because it is near
the cemetery, but usually, it is not.

The woman and her tired dog.
Because she loves him, she does not
make him walk. The heat takes it out
of him, she knew it before leaving
the house that morning.

All breathing sounds like a machine at work.
The dog’s rattles like a garbage disposal
chewing on the seeds from a grapefruit.

The cemetery is always there.
We are used to thinking around it.