I Hope He Never Dies

I think this is about my dad.

I want him to love me the way one loves

a whimpering and

neglected dog,

with pity and

with worry and with

shame. He will find me

in an alley, shivering and

shaking, hiding from the rain.

He will coax me out from beneath whatever

discarded scrap I am cowering under, he will wrap

me in a towel or blanket or his jacket, something - anything - warm.

He will carry me home, to his home. He will place me

by the radiator, turned up to full. I will curl up

beneath it, still shivering, still shaking, while he goes to the kitchen in the

hopes of finding me something to eat.

He will rummage through the

fridge trying, to the best of his ability, to recall

exactly what does

and what does not

kill a dog.

"A lot." I will say. "More than

you think." I will say.

And he will just smile and bring me

something that doesn't.

I tell him I will not live long. He could

do anything and I would not live long. He says he has

forgiven worse sins. I tell him I

hope he never dies. He tells me I will

be disappointed. I tell him I love him. He says I love him

the way a whimpering and

neglected dog does,

desperately, painfully, with a need and

a hunger found only in children and

anorexics. He tells me

he loves me too. I tell him

I am sorry. He says he has forgiven

worse sins.

He strokes between my eyes,

a gentle spot, designed only for soothing something

to sleep. Perhaps by morning I will be

cured, my whimpering ceased, my shakes subsided. I will

run through his house, tail wagging, while he smiles and

laughs and drinks his coffee. Or perhaps there

will be no change, perhaps he will have to drive

me to the vet and have me

put down. Perhaps he will want to. A mangy thing, sick and

diseased. Irreparable. 

Unsavable. Perhaps he won't need to. Perhaps

by morning I will

already be dead. But

for now I will sleep, warm

and fed, a hand soft between

the eyes.