She was the old Bengali sweet of a dog , always at her old friend’s feet .
She was in pain from old age. Her mistress had her lie at her feet and she would go on smiling at her doggie sweetness. There was nothing the vet could do to keep her going.
Everyone wondered who had a right to decide if she should sleep. Did her mistress have it ?Nobody knew . But the mistress would just smile down at her .
Yesterday evening the Bengali sweet dog had slept her last sleep. But the decision about it was apparently not hers. Nor of her mistress who would only cry after her absence near her feet.
A crow caws at dawn suggesting a picture of idolatry, a woman gone to wall to decorate a living room. The crow cannot be my mom to eat real rice.
Our images cannot eat rice on a priest’s word. Images cannot eat rice, only words. We have images of ourselves , fleshed out of our bones, poor nightly creatures of fluorescence roaming the empty wastes of minds.
We have dad in rolled shirtsleeves staring from an ancient space, not yet knowing my coming, what meant his going from all space, all time.There was space only for one of us.
All our images are shadows from past that are cast on our space even after the real things are gone except in our sleep.