RENAMING THE DOGS OF YEREVAN

until I lived in Yerevan, I never saw a german shepherd

use a crosswalk. perhaps he wasn’t

a german shepherd, but like a german shepherd

had the snout of a wolf, the tail of a fox, and caucasian shepherds

americans wouldn’t know. maybe he was, moreover,

a shepherdess. the point was that smile and those paws, gliding

from one painted line to another.

at the cafe with the orchids and the gaslamps, businessmen

share biscuits with Gentle Malamutes, patting heads

as forks and glasses clank.

in Yerevan, all shepherds can read traffic lights. all

in the crossing learn

to shepherd; are shepherded.

one day, we’ll call them Sidewalk Shepherds.

little dogs don’t use crosswalks, but survive,

heads tilted and grumbling. when our eyes meet,

each thinks the other does not belong.

here dream the Cascade Hounds in shadows

of sculptures, silent, but oh, how I wish

they would snore.

thrown from the morning metro, I pass the golden retriever

by Yeritasardakan, belly out, tagged ear

against pavement. he does not

so much retrieve as Recognize; Relay; Relieve.

on hot days I find him in the shade,

cold ones in the sun–

a meteorologist who looks only down.

Mad Terriers dodge heels on college students bound

for elevators and chairs, while dusty canines

conduct their courtyard science.

but like a psychotherapist, my golden retriever sees me

without ever looking up either. the shepherd

learns where to go, but the retriever

learns where to stay. why not

choose the market, like the rottweiler,

is a truth

beyond my history.

to where do I know?

every day Yerevan renames you,

you and not only

You.

PARACONSISTENCIES

knots of condensation explode on the pavement like ornaments. gutters all clogged with ash. the

atmosphere frightens every living thing. I recall the aquarium in my obstetrician’s office.

suddenly, the doorbell. shrimp tails crack between veneers. fingerprints in ketchup, swirling

eulogies for my grandfather. in America, we love happy endings. if I don’t hold my breath, the

ghosts will get inside. my mother asks me if I know I’m beautiful. from upstairs the television

drones. I feel like taking a long drive. my lips contract into a smile. the clock strikes five.

raindrops trace riverbeds in the grooves of pavement. the atmosphere haunts every living thing.

my padded chair is wrapped in stringlights. tapping of plastic on enamel. the clock strikes four. a

shrimp brushes its whiskers against the glass. in America, we love insurance policies. by the time

my obstetrician calls my name, my tires churn up mud and bones. suddenly, the map won’t load.

my grandfather calls me lazy. if I hold my breath, my head will hit the ground. beauty is on the

inside, my mother says. I feign a smile. upstairs the television screams down gutters.

the laughter of oceanliners echoes in the gutters. clouds and waves suspended in ash. at the door,

navy suits and holiday sweaters. grandfather pokes his gums with a toothpick. in America, we

love simplicity. ketchup smears on napkins. suddenly, dialing my obstetrician. the television

purrs like an engine. memories of tires rattle my bones. beauty is confidence, offers my mother.

my eyebrows furrow. a fish flaps desperately on the pavement. the clock strikes nine. the

atmosphere reclaims every living thing. if I don’t hold my breath, I will melt away.

ABOUT:

Samantha R. Sharp is a PhD candidate in Comparative Literature at SUNY Binghamton, where she studies ecopoetics and political ecology. She also serves as Poetry Editor for Midway Journal and enjoys collecting ex-library books. She currently lives in Yerevan, Armenia, but calls home wherever her cats are. Find her on Instagram @galactisharp

EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: HVOB — Dogs