PIckle

When you slept, your snoring sounds
could wake the rugged bedding,
lifting blankets like Bedouin tents,
ready to journey to another land—
dormant clouds, buried roots.
You could nudge the moon from the sky.
Who would want an asteroid,
not a toy to bite,
dragged through the garden,
abandoned in the wet,
defeated grass of autumn?
The moon was too quiet for you,
my young companion.
A moon is a collarbone,
a quiet curve.
Only she could rest
on your lap,
or behind your chair,
a cushion for a tired soul
or a hard-working woman.
On the pillow, Pickle sleeps,
lifts her chin,
rests her head in your hands—
together, with no mirrors between.
She rests on your desk,
where your work grows
like an orchard heavy with fruit.
I miss your snoring sounds,
your piglet nature,
your head tilting to hear human voices—
bells without bell towers.
You are a jumping twig,
a buzzing bird,
your tremendous, deafening,
ferocious snores of love.
Your tail, like a knob no one can hold,
trembles with laughter,
shaking the house
like a merry-go-round.
Drooling gratitude,
dripping youth—
you are eternal, perennial.
Your snoring, whirling through the night,
moves squirrels away,
stuns the bee,
stuns Emma’s sleep.
You leapt on the voracious courgette,
took a bite of her ear,
then flew—
like a snake,
a dragon,
a furious teenager
ready to uncover
this predictable world
with your flirtatious dance.
Under the covers, like a friendly mole,
I still feel your paws,
like a thousand starlings
filling the sky.