The Weather


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



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.