In Which I Am a Teacup Poodle

In which you are a pink girl, mad scientist type,

I am a poodle the colour of cinnamon foam

and apricots in your tote bag. 

In which you knit me a bonnet

and dress me up in strawberry-print sherpa,

I poke my little black nose into your latte.

The sidewalk cafe and BLT on a hoagie,

the leash clipped through my sweater, 

the scribblings and doodles in your notebook:

Sparrows coloured blue with pastel highlighters, 

they hold up banners with due dates;

Chemistry formulas; Contact info for your lab partner.

The Instagram reel: me, your little apricot poodle

licking up oat milk, eating crumbs of bacon,

sighing my head against the table for two—you and me.

In which I am a teacup poodle, 

you pat my rump and call me a good girl, 

but I do not understand 

more than this taste, the milk and fat,

the sound of a city bus

or hiss of an espresso machine.

In which I am a teacup poodle and you, well, 

you found me in some sad little pet shop, 

I do not understand the aesthetic.

Emily Bulicz-Arnelien