Farewell of a Cosmonaut

Rennes street-mutt, unloved
stray. Eleven pounds of bone,
of pelt, of tail. Who can weigh
the heart of a dog ? What dials
or instruments may measure
loyalty; the desire, hard-wired,
to obey ? Dogs have no gods,
know only to worship the hand
that feeds. There is no canine
word for pray. Brave little
cosmonaut, faitful to a fault;
caught and collared, Earth no
more than a distant ball with
which you cannot play. How
the words that sent you on
your way crackle through
the ragged dishes of your ears,
a comet's tail of breaking
syllables that even now leave
their trail : Laïka, in. Laïka, lay.
Good girl, Laïka. Wait. Stay.

Sleep well, Laïka.