"Days before Laika the space dog died in orbit, a Sputnik II scientist took her home to play with his children. 'I wanted to do something nice for her,' he later wrote. 'She had so little time left to live.'"
— Sputnik II scientist
I. — Sputnik II scientist
Yesterday, Laika, / winter stumbled in / sickly blue breath / refiring memories / of Papa bringing you home / when I laid out a calfskin / & Moscow spit / its winds through the gate / rapidly decaying / our meat & Papa's grin / which you devoured with grace / so well-trained, we agreed / & my fingers pinned / your ears into funny shapes / clasped your face like a map / while priests sang outside / I led you to the kitchen / & taught you to chase / your cropped, beaten tail / we ran circles together / girl & hellion / until some nasty orbit / punched at our rumps / & we collapsed on the calfskin / while Papa flicked through / a file of confidentiality / reminding me that / all this was impermanence / but I could only hear / your dog heart & eyelids / twitching / in tandem / with my own.
II.
Come dawn, Laika, / Papa moved softly / he bore you from the calfskin / fattened for slaughter / after, he swore / the slaughter had been good / that you witnessed more / than most mongrels / saw many stars / & multitudes / like Mother Russia’s generous hips / hills swinging through astral skies / upon touchdown / the doctors laced / her euthanasia with candy floss / I did not realize how Papa's spinal / cord hooked forward / with the lie / though now I know / what lying is / & I realize you died of shuttle fever / by the sun-streaked capsule window / little dog veins jump-squeeze-throbbing / 110 miles per hour / writing this / should not feel surprising / (street rat has never been a synonym for god.)
III.
By rights, Laika / your blackened bones cannot be / the moon’s waning crescent / holy dust or / a patriotic metaphor / stamped into the sky / somehow, though / you've still been folklored / into First Astronaut / your face on sculptures & this coin / which I tongue the copper back of / it tastes like spoiled pear, Laika, / & mud dried in coiled fur / see, I believe / one day they’ll forge / a new system in your honor / Laika City or Laika Church / & even then / I will still be thinking / of Papa bringing you home / of your ears pinned into funny shapes / circles / our consciences spilling on the calfskin / how your teeth kissed at / my cupid’s bow / then licked the red away / in apology / Laika, your jawbone was never recovered /
which means my girl's blood burnt up with you.