Moon Dog

My dog wakes me at 4:40 AM to go outside.
I open the back door for him, and he walks
The entire expanse of the galaxy before deciding on
The perfect quadrant to take a shit in. I look away politely.
He finishes and starts to walk towards me, distracted by
Flying stars and birds with whole planets on their backs.
“Come on, Old Man,” I call out to him. It’s time for bed.”
His big mouth stretches into a sweet smile as he says, Come look
At these nebulas, Girl. I think I see one shaped like a man.
He lays down on a stretch of asteroid, comfortably huffing
In relief. “No, Old Man, don’t be silly. Come inside.”
Can’t you see I’m taking my morning moon bath, Girl?
“Old Man,” I sigh, exasperated, “You’ve got to come in
So I can turn the kitchen light out.” He closes his eyes as the gleam
Of dying stars washes over him and responds cheerfully,
Then the light will remain on. I can’t just leave him out there.
He may be a grumpy Old Man but if the lights of his almond eyes
Ever go out again, I’d never forgive myself. “Old Man,
I swear to God, if you don’t come inside…”
He finally turns to me and says, I am God.

Wanda Deglane is a freshman at Arizona State University pursuing a bachelor’s degree in psychology. Her poetry has been published on Spider Mirror and is forthcoming from Veronica and Porridge Magazine. She is the daughter of Peruvian immigrants and lives with her huge family in Glendale, Arizona. When she isn’t writing, she paints and spends time with her dog, Princess Leia.