March 5, 2013

what’s in the dog bowl
 
I can't help it, looking at her sad face. Although, of course,
who knows if what she feels is deep and desperate as I presume?
So easy to misconstrue hunger as some wrenching absence -
ah, projection! – and out of empathy I’d never give myself, feed her to the brim.
There I go again, pawing through the fridge, disemboweling leftovers, upending
Tupperware in search of not just dinner, but a feast she’ll remember.
 
In my darker, ravenous hours, I hope I will be just as willing
to satisfy myself with something to lavish, reward, savor.
 
The dog dives in, her teeth already bared for their first bite,
her little body shaking not with thanks, but appetite.