A Dog Walks Herself Through New Mexico

by Sebastian Snow

cover photo by Brandon Hsia

humbly, she splits herself in two--

between her stomach and her teeth. the ground

molten red and nearly rotten, is less the earth 

and more the air. she thinks about flying.

she thinks about wanting and knows she won’t.

beside her clawed at and sunk in paw--which

is either bleeding or fighting--sits a warm can 

of beer that will never be opened. her tongue tastes like skin. 

she keeps on walking. her snout is a fly’s graveyard. she keeps

going. puppies have families that call to them

from dust-colored doors and perfumy living rooms.

she thinks about learning this and knows she won’t.

a horse’s bones lie a few feet away, miles from

the nearest saddle. puppies don’t know they’re

supposed to die yet. they just know how to be full.

when she’s thirsty, she sips from the sleep in her eyes.

for dinner, she feasts on the ticks that cling to her underbelly 

like small children used to. the clouds are stung

with the dark sky, and soon fall into the nothingness

between her and the end. my dog walks herself through 

new mexico. she thinks about hoping

for rain and knows she won’t.