I sing songs to my dog using just her name,
and ask her things in a language she’ll never utter.
We commune in code:
Furtive looks, longing glances,
Sharp barks, and whimpered yelps,
Gestures of flanges, and tilted skulls.
In whose language do we speak?
This specieated Babylon.
How can I deny her mind, or feelings
and flow of thought when she never questions mine.
She remembers the sound of my ambling,
and the smell of friends and ex-lovers
long since passed in sensory technicolor
far more vivid than I.
So if I command, and my verb isn’t hers
how could she acquiesce to sit,
to roll over, to beg? Her wild isn’t bred out.
Fur and fang, beat a naked ape man.
Why give me the tongue and not the tooth?
Certainly not for a scratch behind an ear,
or food on my plate.
My singing, as Orphean as it may be,
is only of passing note.
Perhaps, because we breathe the same divinity,
and hers is the grace to give credence to mine.