Teotihuacán, Mexico

I was turning my feet sideways
on narrow stone steps when a stray
dog trotted past me to the top—
abandoned, or unclaimed. Was I myself,
at 33, stray, unclaimed? Was I climbing
just to say I did? To whom? At the top,
the dog jumped, its paws on my chest.
I’ve never been closer to the sun.

I poured the rest of my water bottle
over its muzzle. Messy splashing
on ancient stones. I shared a mushy banana
from my backpack. Small dots wandered far
below on dusty ground. I should’ve worn
a hat, I told the dog.

I’d messed up big time back in the States.
I’d headed south, hoping for the storm
up north to blow over enough to reclaim
my name. No collar. The dog edged to the edge
looked down, then backed away. I can’t pretend
I was braver—just more aware I had nothing

to lose. How many times have you
climbed up without considering the descent—
steep grades, narrow steps? I lifted
the dog in my arms, and we took it slow.
Its heat thick against my chest, my shirt
soaked through. The average life of a dog
is shorter than what I’ve lived. I’ve tried
not to live an average life, and I still

might not. At the bottom, the dog
leaped out of my arms and ran off.
It didn’t look back. Neither did I.
But I am now. Still searching
for a collar, the moon, another
pyramid, forgiveness, a good hat
to protect me. A wider purchase
on the way down.