White Dog by Carl Phillips

White Dog

 

First snow—I release her into it—

I know, released, she won't come back.

This is different from letting what,

 

already, we count as lost go. It is nothing

like that. Also, it is not like wanting to learn what

losing a thing we love feels like. Oh yes:

 

I love her.

Released, she seems for a moment as if

some part of me that, almost,

 

I wouldn't mind

understanding better, is that

not love? She seems a part of me,

 

and then she seems entirely like what she is:

a white dog,

less white suddenly, against the snow,

 

who won't come back. I know that; and, knowing it,

I release her. It's as if I release her

because I know.