The Come-Apart

The Come-Apart

It seems to be about the tag. It gets
more illuminated than the thought at times.
On this ordinary night, doing the ordinary

thing we do, we calculate who will be
chopped and who will remain to claim
victory on a show we watch. Invariably,

Molly decides to stand directly in front
of me on the huge purple ottoman I bought
with her in mind. Sometimes, I get pissed

that she won't sit down, allow me to watch
the expected stream of innocuous competition
which steadies me in my most difficult times.

Tonight, as a competitor took her knife
to the soft underbelly of an unknown white
fish, my eyes were fixated on the rabies

tag dangling from my big red dog's collar--
bone-shaped, reflecting light from the television,
from the lamp purchased in the middle of what

I thought was the end. It was after my father's
death and before Molly came to live with us,
love us, destroy the us-ness of this house, bestow

upon us her dog-love thing, slobber and chewing
a constant proverbial pain in the ass, a reminder
of what it takes to love when everything you know

has been obliterated, and all of love as you ever
knew it is constantly at risk. The measure of all
of your remaining days becomes more real than

ever imagined in the light of great loss, a token
of belonging hanging from your dear dog's neck
becomes the angst the heart wishes it could shy

from, retreat, call a truce as it weighs out the
inevitable odds attached to the life of any you love.