Creation · Poetry · Writing

Poetry: Wagging the Dog

My mind pulls my body up, pushes it out the door

on one end of an extendable lead. Watch

her tail, it says, see how happy she is, it says.

And it’s not wrong. So I stumble down the street,

gasping as feet and knees jar with each

step, and gradually my gaze lifts from the

metronomic blur of her tail to her perked ears,

and beyond to white valerian shooting from the

bottom of the red wall, the dazzling light green

sprigs of privet, the self-seeded hollies

holding out their pink papier-mâché buds for

shy approval, and the cherry-pop blossom

waving over the hedge. And I think, ok mind,

you’re not wrong, my tail is wagging.

First published in What Meets the Eye: The Deaf Perspective, by Arachne Press

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