Jane Shoenfeld

Issue #
October 3, 2017


His son digs a grave in the yard.
    It’s for his dog, thick-necked Loki,
    named for a Norse God.
    Loki tore up roots, ate rocks.

His ex caresses the lifeless canine.
    Her tension seeps. Unsettled soil,
    earth turned over, in the garden
    where we’re getting married.

She pats the concealing mound,
    Loki in a gritty cavity, underground
    home for abandoned cocoons,
    arachnids, scraps of bone.

Pale green snakes coil on the grass.
    His son sobs. Loki was loyal,
    entangled his entrails, died young
    I should heap the tunnels with petals.

We’re taking vows in September.

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