At the county shelter, where I volunteer,
most of the dogs are eager
to go out, pulling on the leash, anxious
to get to the play yard and smell
the perimeter, keeping at least one ear
trained on me—I’ve learned to recognize
their need to constantly reorient,
to resettle and shake off the noise
and the crowd of close quarters.
Some go to the locked gate and stand,
staring toward the tree line—some bark
and howl, some bring a soggy toy
and ask me to throw it, some run,
in circles, or a back-and-forth line,
their ears lying flat—when I was a child,
and other children asked: What animal
would you be? I used to say seal,
because I wanted to slip my body,
and all its appendages, into some kind
of ease.
So much of the anger that defined me
to myself, for years, has gone now.
Maybe it wasn’t anger so much as fear—
full bloom, all the time—ratcheting
up sudden like when I start the car
and my husband’s left the volume up
so loud.
I never did learn to swim. Even now,
I miss the traffic light, turning, because
of how the vultures glide thermals above
the open field, near my kids’ high school—
listen, my parents loved me. But they
were young and I was born an old
woman. I understand why the dogs
at the shelter don’t always want to play—
some lean hard into my side, raise their face
to mine, and I tell them:  I know,
sweetheart, I know.

—Rebecca Brock

Poet’s Website

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