Her Dog and Her Drink: Poetry from Miranda Max

Does the Dog

walk the yard
perceiving, always, his
escape?

Does the dog
lick his wounds
because none other
knows what it takes
to heal
what he can heal
without me?

If my dog
ordered a drink
what would it be?
Whiskey?
Gin, because it’s
what he smells on my breath?
A heavy, hoppy, beer?

Does the dog
appreciate it when
I do the dishes?
Clean the mat,
on which he lays?
Or does the dog
only further yern
for the fencless yards
of his ancestors days?

Fleas, and ticks
crawl throughout
his hair-
does he resist,
As I so often dare?

But his eyes seem to know
more about me
then I have ever told him-
and we’ve had
many drunken nights,
many petty fights,
and still-
I saved his life.
Which he has yet
to say thank you for.

Gin

is salty
and warm
like two arms
you haven’t gotten used to,
honest
and bizarre
like the thoughts
you’re so used to,
off-putting at
first,
your best friend
by the end,
a fuck buddy
who,
you really don’t like,
who you’re glad to be
done with
but always keep calling
’cause maybe she’s
prettier
but can’t write a poem
worth shit
and so he gives you
that look
that makes you feel bad
after something
you’ve said
but he forgives
and forgives
and he kisses your neck
pours you a drink
and calls you prophetic.

Drinking Alone

is like being stood up for a date
you never thought would show up

Drinking alone
is like a beautiful piece of artwork from a thrift store
that’s covered in stains

Drinking alone
is like sloppy handwriting
that really says something great

Drinking alone
is like feeling better after you felt bad
and feeling bad after you felt better

Drinking alone
is like having lots of friends
you hate

Drinking alone
is like you’re dog finally saying,
“Look, I’m not listening.”

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