Make Believe Dog

I want a dog.

My colleague asked “what kind of dog?” and I said 

any dog. The dog’s shape is not important,

what’s important is that he is a warm, breathing idea. When my chest constricts with anxiety and the next few days spool like black thread

tangling between my fingers like knots in tiny silver chains

I unpick the fear with the thought of my dog. My village house

on far-out Yuen Long soil, surrounded by a green that sneaks through sunlit windows

few english translations and locals who will stare for years but reluctantly come round to the idea of me in a wide-brimmed hat walking my nondescript dog.

This is a warm picture. I hold it in reverie, like a talisman

til it is as smooth as a worrystone

I turn it over between my fingers at night,

quietly moved by the slow rhythms of my partner’s breathing.

When I am angry I throw that dream away as if fury could keep it

quelled in the darkness of a well a thousand feet deep but 

with each soft kiss that tastes like sleep and unbrushed teeth I feel

my wishing pebble back and the hot make-believe rasp of my unnamed dog butting the foot of the bed.

In the morning

dark outside and in my designated smart clothes

sleepy with the illicit

extra ten minutes we say we won’t spend but find impossible to resist

somewhere near my apartment a baby cries like a broken thing 

and I want to cry too

because I feel like a broken thing.

But I hold on to the shadow 

of warm bodies in the morning, Yuen Long and I love you and

my make believe dog.

About fiercemissc

Twenty-something Geordie girl living and working in Hong Kong. Young, free and single and making the most of it.
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