Low Clearance

That dog was huge. A golden retriever

with hips that didn't work anymore,

slung across a man's chest like a heavy sack

of laundry or a very soft secret.

I watched them cross the street in the rain

and I felt... God, it’s embarrassing.

I felt jealous.

I tripped on a brick outside the CVS.

My hand hit the rim of a trash can—

cold, wet metal—and I stayed there

longer than I needed to. Just leaning.

I haven't been picked up since 2004.

My brother’s jacket was salt-stained denim,

rough against my ear as he carried me

over the gravel. My leg was a mess.

I remember the smell of his laundry detergent

and the way my feet dangled, useless,

like I’d finally been excused from the earth.