We’re Leaving the Door Open
In the backyard at midnight,
my daughter projects primal screams
while running fiery figure eights.
We entered the dark with sparklers
and pan lids to welcome the new year but
the screaming is pointed in another direction.
We’ve strayed into a world without her dad.
He’s trapped in the past because he died,
suddenly, last week.
The beginning of the end descended
on TV as a ticking time bomb in Times Square.
The explosion catapulting us in a fireball
through the door from one year to the next.
We don’t want to leave him behind
but we can’t stop tumbling forward.
Stumbling deeper into darkness. Into
the future. Unable to grasp
what has passed.
.
Missing Dogs
I miss dogs
who don’t wear sweaters,
or jackets, or pajamas.
I miss dogs
who walk or pull wheels
instead of slouching in strollers.
I miss dogs
who sit on command
not in body baby carriers.
I miss dogs
who wear wax balms
instead of rubber booties.
I miss dogs
who wear collars
instead of handled harnesses.
I miss dogs
whose breed doesn’t
end in doodle.
I miss dogs—
but I don’t miss
their people.
© Abbie Mulvihill
Abbie Mulvihill is a recently retired US federal government information professional living in Silver Spring, MD. Her poems have appeared in Hamilton Stone Review, The Best American Poetry blog’s“Pick of the Week,” Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Anacapa Review, Mid-Atlantic Review, Innisfree Poetry Journal, the Capital Love (WWPH, 2026) and North Coast Voices 2025 (MSRPC, 2026) anthologies, and other publications. Additionally, a poem of hers will appear in the forthcoming Women Writers Anthology (1455 Books, 2026). (www.ampoetry.com)
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