mud

i couldn't. i couldn't see Tuesday clearly without being swallowed by the fact that he was my child. i couldn't write about the blood trickling from his mouth with the sharp teeth the color of pearls. the way the course fur, the black-striped pattern circling over the color of slate on his back ticking in the wind was once soft and smelled woody like burning leaves. Those tiny, stiff paws resting on the asphalt once kneaded my chest in the early mornings when pink light spilled on the lace curtains. I tried to write about his body in the road and the golden yellow of his eyes fading, but the lump of guilt, of sorrow, of regret stuck in my throat like a pill. All that I could say was that I remember his grey and his yellow. His red. They came together for the first time. The road was a stony river rushing him away from me. The road was a stony river biting my ankles. The road was a stony river swallowing us both.