Bliss

I remember the glass paneled door of that house
gridded off by cheap, cracking wood bars,
the coffee stained carpet, edges chewed frizzy by rats.

I remember my dog, eight weeks old,
blurry and black as she was thrown against that door
and fell,
quivering and jumpy, to the floor.
She was too young, untrained, but
that didn’t matter to my father.
The carpet was ruined, he said,
no fixing it now, she knew what she was doing.

So she fell to that blue-patterned carpet,
lost in the dark of my father looming above,
still red in the face, still
shaking a fist.
I watched from behind, wide
unblinking eyes, sister by my side, back
against a wall.
Neither able to understand why
he’d do this to one so young.