Monday, January 25, 2010

The fit

She sits in her doorway
her hand clenched in the
dog's fur as she spirals
into blackness that burns
in the center of her
arid eyes.  The dog sits
patiently  when he
was a pup she often
dragged him into her lap
her hands spasming through
his fur kneading in the
torrent that seared her eyes.
Now grief stuns her  no cry
escapes her   the dog
whimpers.


(c)Serena Fusek         

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