Poetry | October 07, 2026

Sonnet for Lost Symptoms

The morning my pregnancy symptoms stopped,
I dreamt I held our long-dead dog, broken
in my arms. In place of headstrong cancer,
which claimed him piecemeal that ungentle year,
in the dream, he’d just been hit by a car.

Whatever ruin lay brooding beneath,
he was bloodless, mostly whole: his ponderous
head slumped lazy-like in my palm; his limbs,
suspiciously heavy, joints fully freed
from the conscious body’s resistance.

There was nothing to be done. No number
to call. No watchful god to besiege.
My only recourse to wait, cradle him
a while longer, hands cupped around smoke.

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