Our Eyeless Dog

      We opened the window on the clean cool milk moon night.

     Our owl perched the sill, waiting

“Maybe she is taking the long way home?”

      In the distance I thought I heard her say.

      Each of us took a tray from Grandmother. Lemon shortbread cookies with buttermilk and coffee. “Why would she do that?”

      This time a little closer. I could feel her hesitation in asking. She was holding her apron while trying to drink the moon.

      Each pearl of moon spit could be seen exiting her mouth with each consonance but you really wanted to pay attention to her bel canto vowels—like Leontyne or Marian she was.

      I wish that I would be able to hear her voice again.

      Grandmother reaches over to the owl and removes its eyes with a melon baller. No one hears the screams over the din of the moon in its milky thistle upon the eyes.

Each transparent eye sees only the face but not the tears.

                                                                                                                            Those tears

That

                                                   Drop Like

Pearls upon the butcher's block

                                                             Or upon the

Moon's Teeth.

      At 03:37 the eyeless dog sees

The Moon as a film.

My daughter no longer has my eyes.

                                                                    But she's still my milk moon

                                                                                          .