Little Noises
Marcia Pelletiere

Dog pushes at the prey she tries
to nudge and lift in her jaws,
a large paving stone
that holds her rapt for hours.

She growls all morning,
not caring how much of a dent
her little noises of contentment make
in the launch and arc of the world.

In the park she guards
the bronze statue of a man,
curls in sleep nearby
as if his torso could thaw and flex,
bring out a cry and show
a soft underchin flash of flesh.

I would burrow my face
against the flat plain
of her forehead nestled
in her own flank's shadow.