Jan 2, 2025
But sometimes, I swear I hear it, the wound closing like a rusted-over garage door, and I can still move my living limbs into the world without too much pain, can still marvel at how the dog runs straight towards the pickup trucks break-necking down the road, because she thinks she loves them, because she's sure, without a doubt, that the loud roaring things will love her back, her soft small self alive with desire to share her goddam enthusiasm, until I yank the leash back to save her because I want her to survive forever.
from The Leash by Ada Limon
