your body from the tub
(dreams 3/30/21)
Janet Kuypers
3/30/21
Maybe I should have watched you die.
I thought at the time I couldn’t stand the pain
of watching it happen to you, so I said no.
Once you were sedated, you were laying
on that medical table, and you just slid, and fell
toward the ground. I caught you and lifted you
back to that medical counter. The way
your head curled in looked unnatural to me,
and when I looked I saw your eyes were open
and I thought you already died. But the doctor
told me this was common, and now it is only time.
You don’t need to see this if you know what it’s like,
the doctor said to me, and for some insane reason
I agreed. But maybe I should have seen you die,
so that I wouldn’t dream about you coming back.
—
We came back from I don’t know where, he went
to the kitchen, maybe to check on his beer brewing,
and was off to where his machinery hummed for him.
I went upstairs, into the master bathroom, and
when I looked into the tub, still filled with six inches
of water, I saw you lying face down, with your nose
to the drain. I yelled to him, for help, but he
didn’t hear, so I knew the terrible thing I had to do —
remove your body from the tub. This was it,
you were dead, and I cannot remember if I
pulled up my sleeve or lifted my shirt to stop it
from getting wet while I retrieved your corpse,
but once I reached into the water to touch
the back of your head, you actually started to move.
Like you were still alive, but not spitting out air.
I panicked, tried to lift you to my shirt,
and it was like you leaned your head into my shoulder
the way you always did to get closer to me —
the way you would tighten your pads around
the tip of my finger, like you were hugging me.
Like how you’d rest your paws at my shoulder
and lay down along my side to sleep at night.
I was overwhelmed, I didn’t know if you were alive
or dead — I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t know
what this dreamworld was trying to tell me.
So suddenly I thought I needed a blanket for you,
so I started to walk to the closet for the bright
green towel we just washed after your final trip
to the doctor. I don’t remember getting the towel,
I don’t remember him coming to help. I just woke up.
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