I hope dogs smell
death a mile away
I hope the scent of irony
and pentobarbital
breach the ammonia
trapped by sawdust
and shedding hair

I hope the bile
on the floor
is not foreign
not failure to dig out
with chattering teeth
not hidden in shame
or quiet compulsion

I hope the wood
buries sound
in its grain
tracing the grooves
warped by their cadence
etched in the walls
and floorboards

I hope nothing takes
the space they leave
the mattress imprinted
with patting hands
I hope something
follows the kissing teeth
and curls up at
the foot of the bed.