I didn’t know you’d be the funniest.
It was the warmest summer. In the air was the spice of prairie grass, of soil breaking. I remember coaxing you with sliced turkey, away from the garden corner, where you mashed your body against the garage.
You wanted to be left alone. What had been your life would not let go of what your life could be.
My gaze, thrusting at you like my hand, must have seemed a sprinkling of salt on all the bad that had happened to you.
Today, on this coldest Thanksgiving, the texture of you, soft, maybe the softest, where golden brown fur forks to meet up with white, you fit your body against mine. It isn’t a stiff, statue lean but a fitting together, like liquid, like broth, like the fabric of my own skin.