I decided the flame of a candle
would be my new pet after the last
dog didn’t work out. Yes, my dog
days were over, our leashes on
their separate ways. Behind them,
different owners — and, of course,
one of them just a part of myself
that was waiting for a window,
an escape from all the training
a dog can insist on. So now
she’s somewhere else
and here I am studying
the flame of a candle as it
wags in a wind I can’t feel
like a dog’s tail, the wax
falling away, coming to a stop
in the shape of a tear she can’t shed.
It was best for both of us,
I thought, brushing the dog
hair off my pants. I can still
speak to something knowing
nothing can resist, change
my mind without wondering
how deep the bite of disappointment
has gone. No, not much has changed.
But I’ve found myself thinking
about what I expected from her
besides obedience, if the name
I gave her had anything to do
with her wild temperament
or whether the shadows
coming out of the candle
have that secret look
only best friends share —
that silent growl when you know
something’s missing.