My Good Death

   DALIA SHEVIN

I will find myself waist deep in high summer grass. The humming

shock of the golden light. And I will hear them before I see

them and know right away who is bounding across the field to meet

me. All my good dogs will come then, their wet noses

bumping against my palms, their hot panting, their rough faithful

tongues. Their eyes young and shiny again. The wiry scruff of 

their fur, the unspeakable softness of their bellies, their velvet ears

against my cheeks. I will bend to them, my face covered with

their kisses, my hands full of them. In the grass I will let them knock

me down.