When my dog started rewriting my poems,
they got better. They suddenly possessed
the ineffable whiff of multivalent scents
milked from the breeze by a wet black nose,
the ear-flopping joy of open car windows,
the quivering willingness to lick the ones
you barely know but sense that you might
one day love. The squirrel imagery grew
more pungent, more necessary, the piercing
musk of unbathed human flesh rose sharp
as wine intermingled with uncured salami,
and when the pages closed at last, you only
had to follow the circle of your own steps
before collapsing into an untroubled sleep.

“A Confession”, a poem by Michael Bazzett

CICI & DARLINGS

MOTHERHOOD SESSION