by Heather Myers

In the shade near the porch steps. Flies and bees ate
into its fur. Blind, it balanced on spindly legs
that would not support the fat-bellied body. Trembling, it
and I, I stroked its back—yellow stained with approaching
death. The neighbor came over with a shovel, and my mother
told me to go inside. I didn’t scoop it into my hands and run,
and I didn’t see the body scooped into the dumpster. If I had
been brave enough, I would’ve taken it into my hands.

There is a limbo between retrievable and gone.
You cannot wait too long.

You can look nearly gone right into its open mouth,
all the stench and maggots, and then there is only
about a minute. I trembled.
The dumpster was not too deep,
but I did not want to open the lid. A moment
passed too long. The white fur was likely marred
by dirt, soiled water, spoiled food at the dumpster’s
bottom. The air hung stale like the smell of greasy
potato chips released by a pop of the bag.

I walked away.