Revenant

"return," called the dog.

and the weeds snarled the clarity
of the prunings
and stole sun and water and breath
from root, trunk and leaves.
even after all my cares
it happened, the baobabs
broke the pots with their
savage insistence.

"return," yowled the dog,
waiting outside the garage
disturbing the unspayed cats
across the street from
their exponentiation.

and though the woman who cares for me
is nice enough,
i don't know what to call her
or why she stays,
why she calls me in for lunch or dinner
why she's there when i wake when it's still dark
her toothless mouth open and snoring
like the endless rhythm of the sea.

she speaks to me sometimes
mostly in loud barks
but over meals or in the dark
there are moments
when she casts a bridge across
with her eyes and her hand
on my forearm
tells me things
that i can't understand
that i can tell she wants me to understand
i nod and smile
(she's such a nice lady)
but i know it's not enough.

"return!" pined the dog,
and this time i heard
the scritch scritch of his
paws on the front door.