Dog Psalms

1. God stares out the window for hours, surveying His domain. Everything smells of Him. He waits.

2. God wants to find a good, fresh bone on His walk, perhaps a tibia attached to a knee, still sour sweet. If he’s lucky, He can sneak it into the house before I close the door, curl up with it on His bed and chew Himself into a dream of a yipping chase in which He, exploding from His hiding place, lands His teeth exactly on a leg and wakes to find it so.

3. God is always begging to be scratched, to leave His musk upon my hands and through me touch the world.

4. God longs for a grungy god-couch upon which He can lie with me, kneading His silken ears, our hearts aligned, my morning breath and distant crotch thrilling His modest, omnipotent nose with my story of love and loss, and through my sorrow penetrate my soul. Perhaps you already know: God is an olfactory historian, a healer, a pleaser, a connoisseur of forgiveness.

5. God has brown eyes. I cradle His slim face. We take each other in, unblinking, oxytocin surging, mutual medicine.

6. Every evening, God begs me to walk with Him. When I emerge from the closet in my unwashed walking jeans, He smells what is in store. It sends Him into frenzy. He dances back and forth between me and my husband, a reluctant walker after a long day of work. Egging, wiggle-begging in ecstatic downward-god pose, He prances, tosses His head toward the door. Come on!

7. Tired as we are, we go with God.

2021

with thanks to Rilke for the phrases explodes from his hiding place and the modesty to use sorrow in order to penetrate our soul

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