brought her dog back
from the dead
Chispa was hit by a car
and Abuela nursed her
back to health, Chispa,
twitching and nerve-
damaged was round
and loud like every
Princess was,
shrieking and limping
along the chained
link fence guarding small
brains that grew
from green stems.
With her one white eye
she watched me,
a shadowed form, looming
too close. With a snap
of small jaws I scrambled
to the kitchen
strawberries falling
from my arms.
Chispa bit me! She bit
me in the face! I knew
it wasn’t her fault.
Abuela’s love kept us
both alive.

Written by

Nimalah Baaith-Ducharme is a poet currently enrolled in the MFA program at Emerson College while living in Wilmington, DE. She was awarded the Harold Taylor Prize in 2019 for her poem "Untitled Haiku 1-6" and has since continued writing poetry but has also found solace in fiction and non-fiction. She plans to continue her poetic education after graduation by pursuing a Ph.D. in Creative Writing this coming Fall.
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