at 22, i am caught
between make-believe and my
new beliefs because
playing with the dog is easier
than dressing me in a pre-
pubescent silhouette.
for both of us
sometimes, i invite her in
hide my shock at the desert cracks above
her brow and the silver
in her soft baby hair
i pull her a seat up at the table
her flesh spills over the sides of the chair until
it doesn’t
and she is the sole string of a violin
brakes screaming on the commuter line
we hoot and holler at her as if
we could possibly out-scream her
and then she is a weeping puddle of
blubber and i am a swallowed stone of guilt
pulled back against the leather strap
taut
sometimes, i don’t
and silence is a howling barricade
at our front door
my heart is dressed in a
school girl’s uniform
and peace
my pyrrhic anthem
