It’s your favorite way to pray:
your dog, curled against your chest,

lying together on the pink shabby couch.
The blanket wrapped across your lap

reeks of wet dog as you sink into
the welcome ripeness. Your dog nudges

your hand to rub her head. Grunting
in delight, she arches her neck, up and back,

then lays on your belly. Your joined breath
rises and falls. You lay one hand

on your heart, one on her small body,
feel the quiet there.

It’s easy to lay your hand on your dog
and trust her goodness –

the warm weight of her body,
her soft sighs as she settles into sleep.

You’re learning to trust your own goodness,
your simple beauty as you lie on the couch.

You breathe, weighted by black fur,
until your fears uncoil,

until you remember that you’re enough.
Then you rise, shaking off the day’s troubles

like your dog leaving the pond,
her tail turned towards home.