coonhound sleeps while i bleed out

 
 sitting by the screen door, waiting for the hinge to give out completely.
my dog rests his head on my lap as we lay on the cold tile.
appalachia gets cold in march, i bet you didn’t know that.
if the door falls on me, would we even wake up from the ground?
would my teeth fall out and broken gums bleed?
 he loves you my dog says,
 his snores are foreign to me.
moisture in my head as
the structure behind me collapses,
and a kentucky rain
claws into the veins inside of me.
 i wait for you here, my body spilling out.
my veins and my breath.
i wait with my dog. and his snores deepen following my own.
blood spills out onto
the road as if a deer has been shot in appalachia. maybe one has,
and maybe i am the deer also.