Lisa Brockwell #8 After

After

for Martina, on the occasion of her third birthday

All day she’s a nut: sparring

with the horses, running amok,

not listening to me, sneaking

away on our walk to chase

newborn calves.  She knows it’s wrong.

When I tell her off, she crawls

on her belly, contrite, begging

for mercy.  Ten seconds later,

she’s at it again.  The bugger.

But then, at night, after

all the dogs come inside, after

she’s had her dinner and slept

for a while, she comes to talk to me. 

No longer all go, a scatterbrain.

She gives me her head and we face

each other: window to window, soul

to soul.  One hand cupping each ear,

I kiss the bridge of her snout,

right between those glorious eyes, 
she drops her head in my lap and deeply sighs.