Stewart Florsheim

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Dog with Three Legs

We walk her up the steps during an otherwise splendid
urban dusk, the sky clear but occluded by human light—
 
the limb now just a wound held together by staples,
the incision an imperfect semicircle but
 
perfect in its intention: the quick removal
of the leg diseased with cancer. The dog seems
 
oblivious, stopping every so often to lick the wound,
her world suddenly a tripod,
 
her sense of balance redefined but unquestioned.
When she stops she looks up at us for
 
encouragement, her tail wagging but not
in the usual happy way—it’s curled behind her
 
like a comma, a pause before she lifts her front leg
and places it onto the next ascending step.