by Abigail Welhouse
My pet will be the color of fire.
I will brush him with boar bristles
and get him a water bowl with his name.
Or her name. I don’t want to do that thing
where pets are always referred to as male,
as a weird default. She will drink from toilets,
probably. She will be small enough to fit in the sink,
or a bag, or peering from under the bed. She will cower
during storms. She won’t be able to stand the noise of children
at the park, going down plastic slides and thrusting hands into noses
or grubby pockets. She will prefer quiet and being alone. She will listen
during poetry readings without a single bark. Did I say bark? She could be
something other than a dog, but I think she will be a dog. I think she will be a dog
and she will be the kind of dog who will look at me long enough to forgive every sin