EMMA
RAMEY
SERVANT
When
the dog barks and then stops, her hand on its neck, there is no year no place. Its tail wags. My tail waits to wag. I wait.
For her hand on neck. Top of head. Am I
even corporeal.
I know that word. Surprise. A flea at
the collar of my shirt and her eyes are crescents, a crescendo. It’s possible. Plausible even. This day, when she makes me
out. Should I circle, roll over,
bark. Excuse me, Miss. Mrs. I am a ball of fire a number on the bottom of
your shoe. The hole I climb into. Will.
And you’ll carry me like the flea.
Into the sunset, the table for two at Marcello’s. Miss. That freckle on your heel. That’s me.
Ethereal, isn’t it. I know that
word, too. I’m using it creatively. I
don’t say this. Any of
it. Don’t speak. The hole in the leaf above her head I saw a
second ago and have since lost. She has
done the same. Is there a condition for this. Maybe if I bend
down to the ground, leave my body to the soil.
Maybe if I stay in the sun until I blister, smoke. Whimper.
But wait. Maybe I misread
her. She has curved her spine. Become a bridge. A dog’s paw.