Anthony Immergluck
Of My Fictions
The immortal dogs of my fictions,
exhausted from centuries of fetch,
are laid out in puddles of sun
​
or rummaging for slugs
in the banks of soggy leaves.
​
It is autumn, and the air
is a bakery of dander and pollen.
​
It is autumn, and the immortal
dogs of my fictions are sniffing
and digging for ancient wisdoms.
​
In the bulges of mulch, in the
outstretched hands of children,
​
there is something I cannot know.
​
And in the oiled rotation of their
immortal hips, in these unspoiled
brindles and chocolates and merles,
​
I find a spot to scratch
and I scratch that spot forever.
​
Perhaps if I am kind, one will whimper
by my grave one day, in the shadow
of that eroding masonry, my epitaph
chiseled in the language of dogs.
​
Freed of leash and muzzle,
with rage and jubilation,
​
the immortal dogs of my fictions
hunt for squirrels and hummingbirds.
​
And if they’re feeling any pain,
I don’t know how I’d know,
but I like to think I would.
This poem was originally published in Issue 159 of TriQuarterly.