Loganthinks

The belly and chest of an apple frozen in my front yard. Snow is quilted on the lawns, piled against the windows in rolls. It’s the kind of cold that freezes the snot in your nose. It burns the skin, creeps through the walls. It cuts through my coat, frosting the inside of the windows on the bus ride home.

Logan has moved in, a new dog’s life in a new arrangement of rooms, now without the view from the porch and the squirrels on the telephone wires. She waits for dinner plates. She sleeps near the bed, huffing. She won’t drink the water unless it’s filtered from the tap. She tastes Iowa.