on a photograph of a Roman grave

Long jaw tipped
      toward a woman’s chipped
anklebone, a dog curls

      her twenty-six ribs around a bowl
of pink glass. This grave
      is love’s evidence,

that what lies at the foot still
      might rise and want a drink,
that the owner might rise too

      and find herself walking,
dog heeled, to the land
      of the dead: the dog

was deathless / they killed her
      the day her mistress died.
So we hypothesize.
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