I think her dog was brown.
I only saw it once, though, in a black and white
photograph – small and round,
with Batman ears, streaming away from focus
like background ra
She was the foreground, focused finally,
framed by the light
of the Sarasotan sun, a singer at fifteen,
still afraid of thunderstorms that always seem
to come around , her sour stomach,
and father’s drunken screaming.
We made plans to meet in Daytona, once,
of our promises.
And now, these days, she blows her kisses
from softer images,
exhaling like fresh air beyond all the pedestals
and structures supporting her. She looks off,
to the left in space somewhere, toward something,
beyond and outward,
over the powder blue horizons, to an infinity
of other dogs greater than anything
I can conjure.