this reminds me of the time you said "I love you" while I was puking Passion Fruit flavored Smirnoff into a bush

It took four years of living here  

to discover passion fruit  

growing wild in the backyard—  

a discovery I owe,  

credit where credit is due,  

to this abused dog I adopted,  

some sort of scavenger savant—  

probably how she survived outside  

until the dog catchers caught her.  

How long she lasted, I don’t know,  

only that it was hard.  

And I’m taking a bite  

of the fruit, praying  

it doesn’t make me sick.  

It tastes like some flavored vodka.  

I can recall the taste and price  

but not the name.  

And then I remember you saying  

that if you were ever homeless,  

you’d make it out.  

You’d steal clothes from stores,  

bathe in lakes,  

get a job—any job—  

you could do it.  

I admired how assured you were  

when, just a few months younger,  

I wasn’t sure I would survive graduation.  

And the dog finds another fruit,  

and I believe she could have survived  

without me, or anyone, for years,  

when suddenly—  

lightning-fast—  

I’m struck by the thought:  

Maybe this tiny, terrorizing terrier  

is you, incarnated—  

the irrational thought I’ve had  

about every animal that’s entered my life  

since you died.  

But eventually, as with all the others,  

I realize it is only the lingering remnant  

of my own compassion,  

reminding me  

of your open, flowing, tender heart.  

And somehow, I believe  

that no matter what, I will be okay.  

I have already survived  

losing you.  

And then I wonder,  

as the fruit glistens in the sun,  

as black lips are licked  

and dark eyes stare,  

whether I should share.  

I Google: Can dogs have passion fruit?

No.  

It’s toxic.  

Oh well.  

Perhaps this isn’t survival,  

not instinct,  

but a mysterious gift.  

And I thank her  

and you.