Dogs circle the light of the kitchen table,
stuck, not prowling, seeking a spot of comfort.
The spot’s probably up there, over Bufo’s head, in the middle of the oilcloth.
One tailsweep could clear it,
one hind scratch-thump knock off the donut crumbs.

Robin tolerates doggy smells, human smells,
lets you smoke for the price of a lecture:
how she watched her mom fade into the pillow like old lettuce,
how she bent under the waste and rage.

If it's broken, make it whole.
Duct tape might do the trick.
Icing down the cake fault
just makes it sweeter.
Hang a picture of kittens
over the fist-hole in the wall.
Wear a big man's shirt
to cover the bruises.

The dogs get good tap water. The children get milk.
Old Bennett's pills are in a puzzle box with letters he can't read.
Ignorance is a blessing, when you can't trust your own hands.

Robin's women lie against her, bellies heavy, heads sweaty.
Robin braids.
Her hands smooth the rough, bring a tintype sameness,
solid, peaceful. The woman who wants comfort
gives herself to Robin’s hands.
She knows the slow circle stroke that brings sleep.

Afterwards the moms can't stay. It's the dogs,
Robin says, you can't trust them around baby. Go home now,
take care,
take care.