By Prerna Barooah
Louka, three years in, seems to love me—
love me?
—almost as much, or perhaps even more
than I had loved Nemo.
He flocks behind me from room to room
louder than shadow, larger than my voice's echo—
his footsteps landing below my heel at times
tripping me up on the staircase, routinely.
At first, I thought it was the novelty.
Later, I thought it was the air-conditioning in my room.
I took the long road down to the obvious conclusion:
it had been me all along.
But see the thing is I have never commanded anyone's attention
this wholly
that it could compel me to begin to believe
in my own power.
And yet, miraculously, I do.
There is power in crouching down to his level,
In scrubbing his fur clean of all the swampy mess he accumulates;
power, still, in chasing and being chased, round and round.
Perhaps one day I will write about why I write about my dogs like one writes about men—
how all my usual reticence can't belie
the pride I have in this knowledge:
I chose what animal to give ownership over this body, my body.
For now I lie, fur to skin—two filthy bodies mangling
on the cold tiled floor, laughter and contentment spilling
and spilling unrelenting
from deep within both our bellies.