Rosie, who’s dying of malabsorption,
yaps on the front porch. A walking ossuary,
she treads the matchboards and waits
for the Witnesses—two young women
who must smell faintly, I think, of fried food
or red rubber balls or mud. Rosie loves them
as she loves pork rinds, fetch, and puddles
and, because I’m promiscuous
in matters of faith, so do I. Any position
seems plausible. On days like this, we
bask in the late autumn sun and let the missionaries
limber us up with biblical small talk. Soon they’ll
ask me about the afterlife. When I say
I don’t feel the need for it, Rosie
will agree because we’re a woman
and a dog of one mind. The blonde
in the pilled navy skirt will drop her voice
an octave, and almost whisper, “Even with all
the suffering?” Out of place in an immaculate sky,
a single cloud—a scoured spot
where the material has worn through—
will oversee our silence. They’ll never
return and Rosie will die. I’ll bury her red ball
with the handful of ash she’s become.