At the River

I’m calling it a dreamswim,
us falling through darkness
last night—your snout raised

toward the moon; my gaze
ignoring the little dog star,
old Sirius, at Orion’s heel, 

winking red, then orange, 
amber and onward
to indigo. No,

it was your genius nose
I watched, quivering. Serious
Shaker of Water, Spin-cycle 

Boy, your bed of fleece bears
the marks of long patience, salt-damp
when we wake. What rises

through fifteen years together
is all a choking swirl, murky 
as silt: my seeping dread,

second guessing your rattlebone spasms,
the mute plea in your eyes.
O that cocked ear—always

the left one—half-limp, yet
lambskin-warm
under my palm. Today

mercy wears a white coat
with blur-stitched letters. But
I ease the tail of your red collar

back through its ring, release
the metal pin from its notch—I,
who buckled it first, an outward sign

for pure belonging. Now I lay me down
beside you: Thank you,
bodyguard. Confidant. Scout.

Stay . . . This path of the needle.
This final act, a giving up—
the river slips its leash.