Memorial Day Weekend 2021, a poem for Sunday

| Ingrid Law |

first, fireworks then thunder the pup slept with me all night; he a tiny shivering furnace

tucked beneath my blanket.

he, wedged between me and a pillow

the pillow, wedged between him and the wall,

his nose in my armpit as he tries not to pant.

me, quiet quiet quiet beneath the noise of the fan, breathing in breathing out a half-raw nerve a heart half breaking for

you yes, you (please believe me)

me, a plus-sized island,

a soft refuge for

old lost dogs.

time and again, we commemorate old bombs, old wounds, with new explosions,

fresh pains. the sky thunders back at us, settle down—maybe try peace, for a change.

rest, I tell my pup at midnight.

on Monday, my father says,

guns will fire at noon in the cemetery next door— but only three times.

at noon on Monday, the dog and I will be far away, our heads jutting from the car windows,

the wind in our ears as we howl softly at the sky, trying not to tremble.