i almost fell on our way to irondequoit.
the rocks were jagged, the
drop-off caught my ankles and twisted
my bones, but you were there. in a shroud of fog and rain and death,
you were there.
i skipped stones all the way to canada while
you watched me
pick up the flattest ones. the smoothest ones, without jagged edges and cracks in the sediment.
i don’t think you cared as much as i did.

the dog is already dead. he fell up on his
way out of irondequoit; he had bridged between
life and death for the last time.
he knew it too.
his bones twisted and ached and i saw his
joints crack under the pressure, carbon filled
pockets releasing every bit of life
he had left.
she knew it too.
i never understood the concept of ownership,
if his leash pinched his scruff and
reminded him of home.
he died the next day.
somehow
i knew that the bridge between life
and death no longer existed.

the boulder was cold; sweat, or tears, or something else,
my thighs got marked up by the pressure.
my shirt was wet.
the thrift store flannel, bleeding ink, i thought
if something was preloved then i’d better
take good care of it.
the waves threatened to soak the holes
in my shoes with salt and fur.
the tide was low.
when he swam
i saw him alive for the first time.
i left when i realized that i was alone.
i believed in the concept of god and hell;
i struggled with my faith a lot.
i found god in a dog that day and
i found loneliness in a person.
i broke your car eventually.
i didn’t leave irondequoit.