Where We Lie

I can’t shake it:
the image of you
buried beneath the soil.
Your fur tangled with roots,
your body softened, bloated,
breaking apart in
the blanket of the Earth.
The ground where you lie,
beneath the grass you loved,
feels so wrong now.
Too still, too empty.
I thought I’d move on,
but the thought of you,
slowly decaying haunts me.
I lie awake at night,
the images of your paws
curling and contorting.
Your tiny black nose
with the kiss of pink,
turned to dust.
I no longer sleep.
I want to bury these images
alongside you in the yard.
The nonexistent stench
of the rot singes my nose
and follows me through the house.
My stomach feels as if
it contains raging ocean waves.
How am I supposed to sleep
without your soft weight
against me. Your full
belly rising and falling
with your breaths.
Now your ribs are
clawing their way out
of your leather.
I don’t want to see it,
but it’s there:
the decaying of my love.
Slow, relentless,
and I can’t unsee you.
My hearts rotting,
tangled in the roots of your absence.