Regrets
by Catherine Essinger

 

It begins as a jerk behind her rib cage,
then becomes a spasm, a beautiful ripple
of muscle moving along her sides

as she tucks her tail along her belly,
flattens her ears into a helmet
and hunkers, head bowed

as if she owed the earth an apology
for eating something she is now
going to return so unceremoniously.

The gag reflex catches. She smiles
a tight lipped grin, opens her mouth,
bares her teeth and chokes up

the item that just moments before
seemed too tasty to pass up, some
thing so enticing that she couldn’t

decide whether to wear it or eat it.
She dipped one shoulder, thoughtfully,
anticipating the fragrance

matted around her ears and throat,
the odor so intense that it will cause
her eyes to water, but she changes

her mind, gulps it down whole—
her usual oh-why-not response
to a universe so full of delights

that no one can resist a taste.
And if the impulse is a mistake,
just bring it up, move on.

from My Dog Does Not Read Plato. 2004
http://www.mainstreetrag.com/CEssinger.html