Something, something, Wheel of Fortune year,
followed by something, something spinning,
but the summer was when the hummingbirds
came late, in flocks, and the males dove
at each other. I heard their chirp
for the first time in my life, and it sounded
just like it did in Disney’s Pocahontas,
and we went on our second out-of-state trip this summer
just to buy weed—marijuana, not vacation,
an errand, an extended errand—
but returned early and sobbed
the day after because Ruby
couldn’t go on anymore, and you needed the vet
to say it was the right choice
on the phone, five times. We drank shitty
McDonald’s milkshakes and ate fries
until we went to bed early with stomach aches
that were gone by morning. Then we found ourselves
at the shelter, clueless, stupid, drunk with wanting—
God, the wanting,
the wanting for everything to turn out all right—
and we couldn’t take that puppy home that day;
her spay wasn’t for another two days, thank God,
and then she was in our home, eight hours in,
at 3 a.m., we were awake,
dreading that we had made the biggest fucking mistake,
but at twenty-four hours we were playing fetch;
at forty-eight, she knew her name.
And the fear in me still eats a hole,
some cavity made of fast-food chemicals and sugar,
something that remains, because
I cleaned out the fridge and wonder
if this leftover is still good.
I made this before Ruby died—
how many days? How many days?—
and now our lives look totally different,
and I don’t know what else one summer can take,
if anything,
or whether everything will turn out all right.
