Ghost

By: John Pring

 

They told me, in that grand church,

that animals don’t have souls.

 

But I hear the rain mimicking

her paws against the faux-wood floor,

 

dream of her small weight resting

against the broad of my thigh.

 

& when I think of killing

myself, she stands at the edge

 

of seeing, head tilted, asking

if she’ll still be here when I go.