A dog with an unequaled appetite lies
at my feet in my sisters bed. I wonder where

she hides her scars, the lucky four footed *****.
The wrecking ball of caged months has hurt

her, but where is her pain? There is no book
I can pour my breath over to sing to me

her misgivings through a flowered microphone
which I cradle in my palm. I could have learned

from her, how to hide it under my fur, pretending
history never happened. Instead I found out for myself

what whiskey does to me, besides burn
my throat and leave ashes that

drum against the corners of my voice where
an ex lover vibrates. We tip over bottles and share

secrets, turning back clocks and calendars. He was cut
from the unfortunate occupation of his father.

My hand is heavy with the weight
of my childhood. When old affections melt

into trash and I drop it, letting it fall
to the floor without bothering to pick it up and

instead I rush into the future where I pray
flesh is pink and whole and healed

in a flowered bed with a dream catcher hanging
above the headboard. I say to my sisters dog

who has secrets of her own beneath her old skin--
skin that has seen the horizons of places

I will never know--"I was fat when I was a kid"
She looks at me with one bleeding eye.

"No you weren't," she says and
blood doesn't lie.