‘True Blue’, ‘Flip Side’, ‘Shadow Boxing’, ‘Twenty-one Questions for the Dog’ & ‘Dog Dreams’
Elizabeth Agre lives in the north woods of Minnesota alongside the bear, wolves, and bobcats where she writes, paints, and takes pictures.
True Blue
I woke up this morning
to find True Love in my kitchen
lounging with coffee
in the winter sun of my window.
“Have you seen the new snow?
It came in the night,” she said like a little girl.
True Love? I asked
like I found a lost treasure
I had all along.
After rubbed eyes
came acceptance—
there were things I needed to know
like on the Master List of needs, where do you show?
“After food and water,” she said flatly.
“In subservience to sustenance,
though there is no real list without me.”
She began to loot my Christmas gifts,
pop chocolates two at a time,
overwhelm me
with her lack of self control.
She said she knew me so well
and my fault list was long
(though on the 27th page
she admitted she liked my songs).
She was well adorned:
silver and gold moons and stars
embedded her clothes
and braceleted to the teeth
she reeked of every perfume and cologne
but her eyes scared me if I looked too long.
She said, “I’ve been considering a Nor’easter today
though I don’t know.”
I offered my best pillow then, a shawl
but she just had to go.
She left with my shadow,
ran over the dog in the driveway,
and the wind blew ice and snow
covering up the pine trees until
I never felt so alone.
Flip Side
My shadow sees shadows
like an artist looks at the world:
the ghost-double of flowers,
twin trees that cross streets
—in measured exchanges—
the way dogs notice dogs
and babies notice babies.
It’s a kind of once-over
she checks form and substance,
in the lean of all straight things.
Her world is
a slanted duplicity
down to the slightest:
pine needle, bug wing,
the shadow of an eyelash.
She says,
Only I will never leave you,
has imagined herself prone
along white satin lining
or ashes, uncountable.
I try to believe her,
but high noon and naked
or midnight on a new moon,
I'm alone.
Shadow Boxing
I liked it better
when she only disliked me
pranked me with projections
of Grim Reaper or Hangman
—a lunging dagger in the moonlight—
she had a knack for startle.
There was a time she danced before me:
late afternoons in the streetlight, winter
a friend when I had none, joined at the soles.
Now she is sullen
a useless duplicity
I drag around.
I can't say when, exactly,
which time I sold out
but we sleep in the light
of a city through my window
and when I bolt-up straight, shaken
she lays still,
posed,
makes me look dead.
Twenty-one Questions for the Dog
I wonder who you’re chasing,
or who’s chasing you?
Running your doggie vagina away
from a lecherous lover,
or defending our teetering A-Frame
as you twitch and yip
on our don'tsitonthecouch.
Your legs jerk and mimic
your daytime run
when the ducks in the pond
tempt and torment
stepping slowly into the water
before they swim clear away.
Do you have one by its
green-black neck
—do feathers fly—
do you swallow?
Do you dream of me
and if you do, am I kind?
Do I stroke your soft black ears, broad head?
Will I dream of you tonight,
disloyal as love, my best enemy?
And don’t I have my own dog dreams?
Dreams where my world is transposed
in a blink, a tremor—
as I plunge down vertical hills
in darkness, or cross narrow ledges in wind
or find myself in that water place
which threatens and beckons—
do my fingers and toes tremble?
And whose name do I call?
The stars form legends above our quiet house:
swaying constellations of mythological proportions,
night notions rising to a three-quarter moon.
If the dog dreams of me, am I good enough?
Dog Dreams
I never wanted to be the Alpha dog.
I would have settled for the scraps
trickled down the Pavlovian chain
mostly gristle and bone.
I would have been happy to simply follow your yellow scent
sniff aromatic cavities in damp dark.
I'd expose my underbelly
soft and thin-skinned
like any true subservience
caught somewhere between the clenched teeth
of fear and love.
In the black woods then
you would lead the way
and I would sleep easy
while you kept one eye.
And in the cold of winter
you would find
the meager rabbit
generous raccoon
the feeble deer.
But, King is not always decided by King
and Queen is born Queen without say.
I strive for Epsilon,
get pushed to the front of the Greek alphabet
an unwilling matriarch,
aching to put my tail between my legs just once.
Penny Freeland is NYC transplant now living on the beach in Cape Hatteras. She has been writing poetry and songs before she could hold a pen and had to memorize the work. Penny holds a BA from Queens College and an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. Her poetry has been published in renowned journals including Rattle, Big City Lit, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Eclectica Magazine, Red Booth Review, Austin International Poets, and other esteemed publications, highlighting her dedication to the craft of writing.
