The Dog

Half a mile down the mountain from Red Apple, we find her,

Mouth full of blood, neck broken

No tags on her pink collar.

Whatever hit her has moved on.

We drag her body to the shoulder

To keep what is left of her holy.

The snow is tamped down in muddy tracks

where people have come and gone

In the car again, my daughter

snarls at me, appalled that we are playing

word games that make us laugh.

The dog probably loved a person

In a warm house that doesn’t know yet,

Her metal bowl on the floor by the kitchen

A soft plaid bed that smells like her, waiting

We are disgracing her, my daughter says.

Haven’t you learned anything about grace, child?

Death does not ask permission

Even if our legs are still strong

Even if we were planning a hike along the river for tomorrow

Even if we will leave an indelible ache behind

It comes anyway.

We laugh while we still can.

Our impermanence can hang over us

Or it can set us free.

In the memory I’ve chosen

The dog has come out of the woods

Full-speed, a pine cone in her mouth 

Knowing no joy greater than the freedom to run

As she enters the road

My Neighbor’s Breath

December 2020

It has always been a gift

to connect with our lips

exchanging our warm, damp souls

through inhale and exhale, the first thing

we ever did and the last we will do

And now it will be the death of us, literally,

three hundred thousand and counting

opening their bare mouths

and then shutting their eyes for good.

Who would have thought it would take us down—

men, for once, afraid of women who wear

their masks too low—

not of slumped teens fingering car door locks

or broken men sleeping on the sidewalk by Kelly’s Liquor

or the greasy guy who collect our cans

smelling like piss and cigarettes.

The ones we have been taught to fear look no more

dangerous than my sweet neighbor today

raking out front with her geriatric dog

her hello condensing in the cold morning air.

Turns out we’re not islands after all,

my neighbor’s lips a weapon

that could wipe out my whole archipelago.

I turn back home to hide my body away,

to dance behind windows

to the symphony of sirens

All of us dance, like it or not

The great robe of liberation wide open

The delusion lifting like mist

Everything you need

Everything you need is right before you.
You will find it in the corners if you sweep.

Take out the broom from behind the coats in the entryway.
Bring what you collect to the ocean.

There is nothing to be afraid of.
Open your robe and walk out into the water.

If you fall, you will land in the hammock
you have woven from passions and tendons

and the muscle of your heart
will pull you to your feet.

When you emerge, shivering,
take a moment to absorb it in your bones

before wrapping yourself up again.
You have a gift you can open any time.

Watch what your arms and legs can do.
You are capable of so much joy.

Blog Post Title Four

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