The Dark

I am not afraid of the dark.
Sometimes
it purrs at my feet,
in a puddle,
round and still.
It oozes along the floor
and climbs the wall
and hovers there.
I feel its warm breath.

I am not afraid of the dark.
My dog and I go outside to pee
We both mark our territory
He punctuates his deed with a
backward scraping of his hind legs
I squat like a child and peer
At the tiny yellow hole in the snow

I am not afraid of the dark.
I am afraid that you will slip away from me
And that I will forget
That we once heard coyotes wail—so close that
we ceased our whispering and giggling and held our breath.