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When Pets and Their Companions Start to Resemble Each Other
I held the leash like it was sacred,
I warned that she spooked easy.
He knelt down slowly, extended his hand
like a priest offering sacrament
to a god built from nerves and ribs.
He said good girl too fast.
She bit down to the bone,
drained the smugness from his face—
he earned it, the wound. The scar
would preach a gospel he'd finally believe in.
Now, when he reaches for warmth,
it's with permission. His hand flinches
even when it's safe. The nerves
didn’t come back right, fireworks
in reverse: a cold bloom,
then nothing good.
Still—
there’s a kind of comfort
in knowing how easily a creature
can taste the air and understand
they're not safe,
sense they're being lied to.
And now, I should say,
Beware—
I'm a lot like that.
Copyright ©
Jaymee Thomas
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