Delia Rainey

I'm walking home from work again during the loneliest time of my life.

Two white dogs run towards me, they are running side by side like twins.

They get real close to me, and I flip my hands, palms up, as a habit to get dogs to smell me.

What do I smell like? The dogs approach my body and then run away into the space between two houses.

When I am walking home, I am a black form holding a rectangle of light, my phone.

In someone's house, there is a tapestry of flowers, a blue tv.

People are moving somewhere, where do dogs belong?

A leaf flips over, revealing the rotten part of the leaf, dark.








All summer, I wrote about times when I was alone—walking around, going to shows by myself. Kind of like a Virginia Woolf thing—you're walking home, thinking about your body. The act of walking and wondering becomes a form of writing. I just wanted those dogs to like me.