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Dead Pets
They come between dreams,
soft focus tails wagging,
whiskers electric,
the ones we have named.
Wide-eyed refugees
we had carried home in cars,
or in our arms curled around
trembling ribs.
They return like blood
to fill again a round vein
on the surface of sensation.
The tactile plasma
of Patch, Lucky, and Tigger
still checking our pulse.
Those we once called mine,
understand,
it is we who were once theirs,
once owned.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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