my father’s afghan    

There’s an afghan in my writing 
studio at the edge of the couch.
The blanket is small—a three foot

square. My father’s friend crocheted
it when she could not heal him.

Brought it to the hospital, draped it
at the foot of his bed. Each stitch
a laying on of hands. This is where
my dog sleeps, head against a throw

pillow, ears at rest. His black and white
spotted coat sinks into the rough wool.
Sometimes, he whimpers in a dream.