The family dog is dying.
On Saturday,
they press her ****** paws
in cement,
and the eldest daughter swallows
some accidentally.

The middle son is in the backyard
raking leaves
when he tells the neighbor.
The words snag along
the electric plot line
and crumble to bits beneath his teeth,
brushed back and forth into
the leaf pile.

On Sunday,
the mother unfolds the quilt
that the kids use to make forts
onto the kitchen floor.
Her muffled pats on fabric
a motion to the coffin,
the dog spins in a single circle,
then lays down to die.
“This way she will be warm
while she is still with us—”
The eldest daughter vomits
the cement up in the nearby sink.

On Monday,
the father slides his hands
against his dog’s ribs like a xylophone,
then pulls back,
afraid to sound like
the morning alarm.
The family dog is dead.

The youngest daughter takes on the role
of licking her paws,
dried prints on the tile floor
where she lays down to die.