in response to “Hawaiian Night” by Rick Moody

Moments later the hound was back. He’d bounded, tennis ball lodged as if he were a volcano trying to swallow the sun. Here fire is construed with passion, with joy. He hadn’t cared that it landed in the lake. As he rejoined us, we pretended not to care he was soaking.

How I knew to ask for a ring: The mutt didn’t drop the ball at my feet. Eyes alight, I watched my man throw. The answer was in his direction — toward the farmhouse. I sat on the ground, leaned against his leg, and searched for magma beneath damp grass.