The power’s out when we arrive,
so our greeting is the tip-tap
of paws in the stairwell,
the flap of ears
but no visible dog. We know
she’s there despite her
formlessness. We light
a platter of candles and she
becomes a rosy crescent
moon in your lap.
We shower in the flickering dark.
At two am, in the nothingness
of our bedroom, I make a silent
film about the afterlife
with no images. The bed betrays
me only once, a single creak,
as I rise to catch the year’s last
lunar eclipse, itself
eclipsed by clouds. Workers
out there in the pitch
toiling away with wires under
a strange omen. When I return
the dog has gone diagonal
across my absence
like a shooting star.
