Last night I dreamed again
of my dog
daughter.
A girl of seven
or four, her skin
sunburned. Ice
cream has spilled
on her overalls. I ask her,
How?
and she says,
Ask me instead what
I felt when you gave me
a name. Why
sea spray makes me
howl, how
I knew first
your illness.
Ask me, please,
to fetch the red
frisbee again.
This morning, my dog
is thirteen. There’s no
daughter.
She watches me
from her favorite sun
spot on the carpet, and
I ask her,
Stay—
***
Daniel DeRock is a writer from the Midwestern U.S. who lives in the Netherlands. He writes mainly fiction, but lately feels himself pulled toward poetry. His writing has appeared, among other outlets, in Pithead Chapel, Gone Lawn, Ligeia Magazine, The Daily Drunk, and CLOVES Literary.
***
image: Jade Hawk is a meat popsicle
Rejection Letters 