Our puppy isn't glued to CNN.
She licks what trembling toes I have.
Forgives the world for all its sins.
Sleeps and eats.
Eats and sleeps simplicity.
Her jaws aren't set and teething on
this acreage of human terror.
Around her fur, its sacred snow,
a crop of bombs is brewing tea. 
She doesn't think.
She doesn't know the bag will rip,
scatter ashes in our graves.
There are no photos
of the dead in wallets
of her tender eyes.

If we sit with eunuch quills,
do nothing for injustices,
but play with balls beneath a cloth,
a cloud will form and hail
will fall on liberty.
She listens to the steel voices
warming up the missile sites,
focuses on little bugs
that render life enigma
to her innocence.
I sip on her untarnished mind
like cattle on the river's edge.
I breathe the way
she snores in peace.

           Janet Buck
JANET BUCK has a Ph.D. in English and teaches writing and literature at the college level. Her poetry, poetics, and fiction have appeared in A Writer's Choice, Born Magazine, Stirring, The Melic Review, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Kimera, The Rose & Thorn, 2River View, Southern Ocean Review, Urban Spaghetti, and many more. Two of Buck's poems have been nominated for this year's Pushcart Prize in Poetry and she is a recent recipient of The H.G. Wells Award for Literary Excellence.