Chloe’s Pantoum
The summer we carried the puppies up the garden.
Four cousins, each with their own damp handful
of fur, paw tongue. The animal smell.
We knelt in the grass to make them beds.
Four cousins, each with their own damp handful:
Chloe, Lady, Duke and the runt.
We knelt in the grass to make them beds,
all of them squirming in the sun.
Chloe, Lady, Duke and the runt.
I chose Chloe. Wet-black coat, white belly.
All of them squirming in the sun.
I can’t recall who took the runt.
I chose Chloe. Wet black coat, white belly.
She slept on the stairs for sixteen years.
I can’t recall who took the runt.
She was hit running back to the old house.
She slept on the stairs for sixteen years,
It was dark and raining, blood on the headlamp.
She was hit running back to the old house.
At the curb, she raised her tail thump thump.
It was dark and raining, blood on the headlamp.
We lifted her, a damp handful
at the curb. She raised her tail thump thump
thump thump and I remembered.
We lifted her, a damp handful
of fur, paw, tongue. The animal smell.
Thump thump and I remembered
the summer we carried the puppies up the garden.
* Hannah Lowe is from Essex and now lives in London. She teaches English in an FE College and has been published in various magazines including Magma, Ambit and Smiths Knoll.
