She gave birth to miscarriages. Three, four, five.
Immature, gory mistake. She didn't eat enough.
She turns her head to look at them, licks a ear, nips a nose,
Then eats them whole.

That she is a dog should comfort you.
Yet, strangely, it does not. They are not far enough,
Not brutal or anecdotal or insignificant,
But running your races, licking your wounds.
And you in turn cannot but make a mother of her,
Her whimpering, heartache, her hunger, trauma.

She ate them, then went away and howled, outside.
Returned the next day, sniffing round the now-clean room,
Searching. Silence the indecent proposal.