Stray
The dog we took in for a night
returns, scampers across town
from the abandoned house where
we found her, left food, water.
Daily we drive her back, but
in morning she’s cowering at
our doorstep, bones too thin
to bend for sitting, sleeping.
What does she want? Not
nourishment: peanut butter,
chicken scraps–denied. Not
love: she fears all edges
of human–elbow, knee—
voices too deep mean ‘run,’
voices too high mean ‘run.’
Perhaps she just wants
to be seen, wants someone
to know she had lived
awhile
And hadn’t grown old, saw
her future and politely turned,
trotted down wet alleys, crossed
busy highways to arrive
at our doorstep and refuse
all we think we want.
Elizabeth Bohnhorst's poetry has appeared in The Pinch, Camroc Press Review, Word Riot, The Austin Poetry Anthology, The Dunes Review, and elsewhere. She has a terrible short-term memory and would love advice on how to remedy this.