Domestic

In bed, and it starts again,
whimpering somewhere
in the neighborhood, a dog
too far away to locate.
Somewhere the shadow
of a larger animal may trot
into a stranger’s yard to find
a tail tucked in, wide eyes,
a hind leg trembling. At my feet,
my own dog curls into himself.
My husband lies beside me
with a book in the low light.
I get up, go to the window,
pull back the blinds. Darkness,
a single streetlight, the dim bulb
from a neighbor’s back porch
making outlines of the scrap
and overgrown brush. No sound
but the freeway.

At lunch together,
over cocktails, we were light
and serious. Let’s have a baby.
Let’s sleep with other people.
Order another round. Our images
of each other are strange
to ourselves. If you asked,
he’d say I’m nervous.
He wouldn’t say I covet my time.
I covet my time. To love
is to be inside something inside
something else. I can’t be
more specific. I am writing
from inside. I came here
from somewhere. It is not
my natural state.

Sudden tapping from
elsewhere in the house.
I start. He laughs. Just water
falling from the shower head.
I never thought I’d need someone
so much. Tonight I told him
only part of the dream
in which we crawled through
a narrowing tunnel. I’d said,
I have to show you—this
is really something. But
there was barely room.
I stopped, said, no,
we must turn back.

And there it is again.
That dog. For every warning
on the neighborhood forum,
reminding all to keep
their pets safe from coyotes,
there’s someone there
to point out that we live
in their natural habitat.
Yeah. Thanks.
To love is to be careful,
and it’s an impossible task.
If you asked, he would
describe my reins and not
my recklessness.

At the restaurant, he laughed
when I said animal needs. Of course
we were built incongruously.
In a few days, he will leave
and I’ll say text me when you land.
His voice is deep when he reads to me,
and still out there, the sound
of something crying in the dark.