Poetry by Brian Christopher Giddens
At the end of the day, I go downstairs to where Jasper lays sprawled across the cushions of the couch he claimed ten years ago when he first arrived, shaking with fear, pressing himself into a corner against the armrest. But now he knows the nighttime ritual: he stretches his legs, rolling to the side to expose his white-fur chest. I perch on the edge of the couch, rubbing his belly, his eyes open, still not fully trusting, my touch gentle, slow, as Jasper doesn’t like surprises. One final rub and I move to the kitchen, the treat jar. With the clang of the pottery lid, he rouses from his bed for three small biscuits, gently taken one by one from my fingers. I walk to the stairs, stop on the landing, turning back to see him standing near his bed, watching me. “Good night, Jasper, be a good boy,” I say. His deep brown eyes stare back, as if he’s saying the same thing to me, making sure I’m on my way, before returning to his couch and an undisturbed slumber.
Brian Christopher Giddens writes fiction and poetry from his home in Seattle, where he lives with his husband, and Jasper the dog. Brian’s writing has been featured in Sequestrum, Litro, Roi Faineant, Raven’s Perch, Hyacinth Review, Rue Scribe, Glimpse and Evening Street Review. His work can be found on https://www.brianchristophergiddens.com/
