I will bury the dog over and over
again in my mind. We wrapped her
in a pink, fraying towel, scooped November
earth and placed her in the shallow hole like a bulb,
palmed the dirt over her body, patted it firmly
and began the waiting for her ghost
to blossom in our memories.
She is not sleeping under my feet.
Her marker is under ivy, a patch
we pause at when circling the garden
of shade plants, returning to the house
with an armful of tomatoes and squash,
spinach, mint and rosemary, our hands
dirty, used to balance as we stoop, used
to pluck and uproot the wet earth’s yield.