Quiet.
Do you too feel like the black dog?
Do you ever beg the question, why?
That you could have been a lap dog. A decoration that licks.
That you could have produced cute little puppies by now. An oven plugged into the wall of the
home.

Come.
Have you seen the labradors that guide the blind?
Did you know they love their work? Their person? Miss them, in absence. Cold, wet, leaves.
Leafless trees.
Do you think it was evolution, or God even, who drew a line in tidal sand between you and the
labradors?
Because why couldn’t you be like that? November rain, on the beach. Blurry lines. Winds that
bite.
Does it keep you up at night that God gave you fangs and armor, and why, and for what, and
was it to protect the others? Or to protect you.
You’re a leader. You see it, how could you not? But not the majestic, wise, maternal leader. No,
you’re the bitch with teeth.

Heel. 
Have you noticed how jaws that can foam and unhinge and roar, can close with only a word?
Have you noticed how it doesn’t even take a word anymore? 
Do you even remember the smell of the rain? The trees?
Or claws powerful enough to tangle the wind with your hair. Tall grass and thistles in the fall,
whistling past you.
Just one word. That’s all it took to pull you back, pull you down, and pull you right back up
again.
Just one word.
One.

Speak.
Do you feel brave?
I don’t feel brave much these days.
When the air is icy cold, lacking in oxygen, when the life around you starts to crystalize.
Stagnant and breathless. Weaponized. Just like you.
Funny how things like courage and kindness and keeping yourself together fall by the wayside.
When it’s hard to breathe, do you feel much like writing? Like speaking?
Do you think he would?

Stay.
When he said “Go,” loudly enough to break your heart, do you wish you could? White roses on
lonely tombstone.
Do you, sometimes, wish you already had? Wish you could go back, and go through it, and go
away.
But you don’t. Shepherds don’t leave their sheep. Nor their children. Church mice and their Grim
protection.
So when he said “Stay,” you planted your feet where you stood.
When he said “Stay, and so will I,” did you feel like for the first time in a long time, you had a
pack?
Did you feel something warm? Cinnamon and whiskey for two. Blankets and campfires.
Did you feel nearly brave again?

Stop.
Have you too, in the middle of the night, tipped your head back? Flummoxed and frustrated.
Unfair.
Closed your eyes. Felt that you could’ve tipped right over backwards, fallen into sleep.
That you could’ve opened them, your gaze falling to the moon. Silver Ballerinas. The Ghost of
Autumn. Cold.
That you could have howled. If you didn’t– so violently—care to be silent.

Down.
Why is it that to be a woman, is to be the black dog?
To be a butterfly, to become beautiful, to make yourself more than a worm,
is to be the blasphemous, bastard daughter-wife of Mr. Bread-Bringer. A chrysalis wrecking ball
hanging daintily on a Christmas tree. A creature destined to her ruin.
The parsonage protector.
The omen of death.
The black dog.