Next Door

The day my dog died
you wore your hair in a bun to a party
and my breath caught at the ways we’d come undone,
once accomplices,
twisting the heads off our dolls
divining monsters.

You, dark hair varnished over your scalp,
sun glinting off a perfect egg,
tiny purse at the end of your fingernails.
Me, the carcass of a cattle dog beside me
after he’d eaten antifreeze that spilled on the floor
of the garage.
Bad dog.

“Are you my friend?” I’d asked
as we played four-square on the driveway
one boring summer day.
“Duh,” you’d said
and I hoarded the word like money.

There goes my friend to a party, I thought.
Silver barrette, silver sedan.
Tomorrow I’ll ask her to help me bury the dog,
and she’ll say that’s something a hillbilly would do,
so I’ll throw his body in a plastic garbage bag.
The men come to pick up on Thursdays.

Christy Prahl is a philanthropy professional, foraging enthusiast, and occasional insomniac. Past, current, and future publications include The Bangalore Review, Boston Literary Magazine, High Shelf Press, The Blue Mountain Review, eMerge, and others. She splits her time between Chicago and rural Michigan with her husband and plain brown dog.