I was listening for the dog 
when the locks were pried open. 
The man was dead. The dog, a survivor, 
was dead. It happens

more often this way. 
A disease left 
untreated; the body, 
in confusion, gives in.

The bomb breathes its fire down 
the hallway, the son comes back 
in pieces, the body, 
in confusion, gives in.

The grief is a planet. A dust ring. 
A small moon that’s been hidden 
under my pillow, that’s been changing 
the way my body moves this whole time.