The Fayette Co. Line

I drive out Old Frankfort Pike past the ditch 
by the creek where you pulled off on New Year’s Day 
to pick from the mud that Jack Russell 
with swollen nipples and bring her back to the farm.

You called her Jillie Bean.

It’s fall here, the window cracked, and a box on the floor 
in back holds my share of your ashes.

A slash in the pasture that is a different creek 
must’ve flooded overnight: It’s overtaken the road 
to Windy Corner—you loved the house sauce at the market there 
and the hashbrowns, the way Ouita, when you came in, 
called you kiddo.
 

I was away at school 
but you said the dog, that first night, left 
these little stains on your clothes at the foot of the bed 
but didn’t whimper or cry.
 

You shortened her name to Jillie, then Bean—bizarre 
that she outlived you.

Dad had to bring her in last year.

I slow and stop your Volvo in the road 
a few feet short of the water 
and roll down the window. 
I put my hand through to gauge the wind.