dog's teeth 

i want to know what will happen
to my dog's teeth when she dies.
inside Piper's mouth they're like
aquarium pebbles or tic tacs,
all crooked; a shoreline 
in Maine where both of us stand. 
we throw out fishing lines
& catch pig ears in the water.
gnawing them, she licks her lips,
lays down in the sun. wheezes,
her pug-nose whistling as she breathes.
she ambles along the ceiling
of the house-- her ghost made 
from bowls of water. how do you 
write about the love you have 
for an animal? i tell her that
she's not allowed to die.
i get on all fours
& i ask her what she knows of me,
if she recognizes this body 
that has changed so much.
does she remember the first night 
in our old green house? chewing on 
all the beanie babies in my room,
i laid down & told her she could
chew me if she was nervous,
if that would help.
i took out my bones & laid
them on the speckled carpet.
sometimes now her teeth fall out 
on their own. i collect them. 
i plant them in the yard 
& they each grow differently.
the first became a sweet potato tree 
the next, a river, tall 
& emptying into the sky.
one was just a bush of chewed 
stuffed animal eyes. another a
vine of measuring cups, each 
ripening full of kibble.
when she dies i'll plant her
too & hope that something marvelous
bursts from the earth in her place, 
something worthy of the life of 
such an eager, soft body.