The Density of Yarn

by Anastasia Jill

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My dog is a nihilist,

straight up savage,

complacent enough

to stick pushpins in the ground.

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He knows earth is hollow

just like his holes are hollow

and the promise of bones and

squirrel fodder is biblical,

mystic – mythic.

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There is nothing here for him,

so we sit and make a tapestry,

stand up,

let it flow, but

it’s so heavy.

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I am so weak

and dogs don’t have thumbs.

He barks at me, stubborn.

Thumbs are a myth –

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We weave chaos,

making yarn from dirt

and nothing.

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