The Abandoned Dog
Joan Miro's Dog Barking at the Moon

She's gone. She climbed the ladder and jumped, even though you told her the only way left was down. Without her weight to press its feet into the mud, the ladder staggers like a toddler taking his first steps, and you know that pretty soon it'll crash down and you'll be the only one left to drag it home, through the mud, and leave it behind the shed. She asked you to come with her, but you told her that dogs can't climb and girls can't fly and there's no Man in the Moon, just craters where comets left a scar. She's gone and you can't hear her heavy breathing or the hem of her dress snapping in the wind. The only sounds are the moan of the ladder as it sways, back and forth, and your own voice, howling, breaking up the night.

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Triptych for Kate

Russia ate my sister,
tore her limb from limb,
smoked and shredded her,
stuffed her into steamed rolls,
sold her on the street for ten cents.

There is a girl who calls or writes,
pretending to be family,
but we are not fooled.
The clever redhead--
who dug her nails into my shoulders
in the playroom, at the old house--

she is gone, consumed,
replaced by a starving muse
who tells herself that paintings,
her naked breast,
will make her real again.
I haven't talked to dolls in years.

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