Outside the house in Missouri
where we lived when I was 12
there was a slope and a pin oak
and a little black dog named
Hercules, who we buried under
the tree after he chased one car
too many. We wrapped him
in the blue-rose blanket. Tucked
in as if for the night. And I lay
on my bunk, my sister below
and thought about bones that are
cold and alone and my body hurt
from growing and for all
I didn’t know was gone.
— from Juniper Volume 7, Issue 2