An apology to Archie

 

 

I would burrow my hand

 In your baby hair fur,

To feel your skull’s hard ridge

 Beneath the groomed, perfumed fairy floss.

 

Constellations of pollen

Dusted on a corkscrew coat.

By a plumed tail waved for joy

As you leapt in gangling, graceful beauty.

 

Padded paws suspended,

Floating above the lawn.

Trapped in my phone still

In all of your poodle perfection

 

That night we watched TV.

 You sat, sphinx like, transfixed.

 I lay, mouth slack in sleep,

 Drool trailing on the baby in my arms.

 

Wrenched from sleep by the screams,

Curled contemptuous lip,

Deep, snarled growl of warning

Red beads

          of banishment

                  drip

                            from starfish hand.

 

 

 

We sat in the back of the car

And you lay your head in my lap.

I fed you liver treats

And told myself that it was for the best.

 

Do they burrow their hands

In your baby hair fur?

To feel the skull’s hard ridge

Protecting your betrayed bewilderment.