dear kennedy

Venting. My dog’s neuroses make me sad.

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I know some of your demons:
the trill of a pea-whistle,
the shriek of the fire alarm,
the gnawing growl of thunder and cymbal crash of lightning —

I know that you love your ears rubbed
hate your paws touched
only think toys are worth having if they make noise.

You rub your face all over the carpet after you eat,
prance like an Olympic gymnast during a floor routine,
love the beach but hate the ocean.
You’ve met a giraffe up close and sea lions from afar.

You love me best.

You are breaking my heart.

Don’t you know?

If I could, I would rid the world of whistles
I would swallow every stormcloud
I would strip from you every encroaching sign of weakness
so that you never had to feel afraid —

because I can’t see these demons
I don’t know what they look like
what they sound like
what they’re made of —

(am I one of them?)

I don’t know how to fight them or how to fix this.

I can’t look at you when you’re like this.
I can’t let you see me when I’m like this.

I know when you dig at the wall or the floor or my bed or my body
what you’re saying is

— hidemeholdmehelpme! —

I know the worries get too big for your body
and you tremble beneath their weight —

I know everything about you except how to help you.