Friend Shaped

The rescue dog next door is a big boy
with soft eyes whose brindled body
goes all desperate when he sees me, or anyone
he loves, like Jello, like anticipation, wiggling
clear through. I have always wanted
to be smaller, to take up less
everything—space, mass, weight.
I can name (or could) where it came from, why,
but I won’t do that here, born as we are
to people we’re wont to trust or try to,
being, as they are, inexorably
human, too. I suppose I am saying
I have been uncomfortable here
for a long time, maybe the whole time.
Lately, I’ve been telling myself I am friend-shaped,
like my neighbor’s dog, I am soft skinned
and big eyed. My brain faltering
between beauty and distraction
and how happy I am to see you, yes you,
after all this time, or just since
this morning. I mean, my arms open
easy to take people in, my body
is a soft thing that knows
what hard is.