Don’t they too try To speak, surfacing, Submerged, As some phantom Chases them awake?
Don’t they also seem So often to be after Something, scratching At air, splayed On their backs?
And can’t whatever climbs Free of the teeth Of its age to sleep In the predecessor trees Or caves or dens
Desire liftoff and try To sing—in dreams If it must, hopefully Though, in the morning, In sunlight?
Rising from dreaming My own dog was drowning, After I dove in And took hold of her Harness, I walked outside
Early on a Thursday In the middle of June Singing low in my throat A melody descending Slow as creation,
While our two leashes Swayed a string Accompaniment Across the concrete And lilacs; and why not
Believe that they too-- The wooly ones with Wolves for great Great great Great times twenty
Thousand great grandmothers-- In their less-muzzled Dreams, like us, Inexplicably lift From the dust and rise?
-- Jacob Boyd teaches English at the University of Illinois at Chicago, where he recently graduated from the PhD Program for Writers. His chapbook, Stilt House, selected by Heather McHugh as the winner of the 2018 Emrys Press Chapbook Award, is due out soon. More of his work can be found at Blackbird, Copper Nickel, Iron Horse Literary Review, and elsewhere.