In the evening she comes to me
like a child ready for bed.
She slips under covers, curls
into my curves or stretches against
my spine. Some have said they fear
I might crush her, but we're a tender
pair, each aware of the warmth
and the other.
 
I knew a woman once who kept
an orphaned antelope, let it
roam her kitchen, sleep in her bed,
musky scent and hooves.
 
This dog looks like a small deer,
poised and silent in the lawn,
but at night, she is a dark body, lean
and long against the lavender cotton
of my summer sleeping. We are bone
and bone, muscle and muscle,
and underneath each surface
a quiet and insistent pulse.