Selfish

to want

the morning

all to myself,

to hope I won’t

have to share

the stillness,

to desire

empty and

silent streets.

 

Foolish

to confess

everything to

the dawn,

to smile

at the sinking

moon,

to imagine

the world is mine

for a moment.

 

That uptight chap with shirt tucked in,

whiskers shaved,

and trousers creased,

 

using formal speech,

perfect diction,

and impeccable etiquette,

 

responsible beyond belief,

organizing every last detail,

and maintaining order in his world,

 

that steadfast bloke has worried himself silly,

chewed his manicured nails to nubs,

and nearly pulled out all his hair

 

as his utility is questioned,

his existence proposed obsolete,

and his presence only desired

 

by stodgy traditionalists,

rigid editors,

and English professors.

 

After being snubbed by companions,

excluded from clubs,

and ignored by neighbors,

 

abandoned by hope,

cheer,

and humor,

 

he broods alone in his room,

looks around,

and finally settles his gaze

 

on a revolver,

a rope

and some pills.

These empty roads

wind through what seems

like barrenness but is really

possibility, and I speed,

faster, farther, alone for miles.

Thoughts I usually censor,

dreams I rarely allow,

echo across red canyons,

swirl around sagebrush,

waiting to be acknowledged.

 

The mountains, stacked

and layered, silhouetted

against acres of sky,

loom like my future,

anchor like my past,

pointing to all I will

and will not become,

shadows of all I have

and have not been.

Accelerating, I drive farther,

faster into this sparse,

wild state, aching

for the clarity found only

on long, lonely highways.

Flaming ribbons ripple

across landscapes,

igniting delight

 

Orange and gold rebels

incite riots of joy,

changing everything

 

Evaporating,

that green abundance

we could not stop drinking

 

In summer’s sultry stupor

we forgot

we would wear coats again

 

Drowning in life’s bounty,

choking on beauty,

not needing rescue

The night’s nimble fingers

sneak in through the screen

to scribble crisp, cool letters

on bare arms, wild messages

whose meanings will be dreamt

If I swim far enough

through this darkness

there has to be light somewhere

 

The ashes do not convey

the essence of you,

not even close

 

At the river today

even the ducks

looked for you

 

Your collar with your smell,

your familiar jingle,

empty of you

 

This house, so hollow,

so quiet, while we wait

for healing

 

Your hair still appears

in the dustpan,

whispers of comfort

 

Fourteen days and still

I crumple

at the smallest things

Heavy with grief, sinking

in this vast ocean of loss,

moments of comfort

buoy me toward the surface

where I emerge for an instant

before plunging back into

the lonely dark depth

where it is too cold

and I am too tired

to do anything

but submit

to the undertow.

 

It’s not the sharp teeth

or strong jaws that will

rip your heart from your chest.

It’s not even the carnivorous

instinct that puts you at risk.

 

It’s the eyes, big and brown,

that speak their own language

and see what you can’t.

It’s the floppy ears

that hear beyond words.

It’s the tail, that needle on

the barometer of joy.

 

It’s the ability to invade

home and heart, expanding

both and filling them wholly.

It’s the love, abundant,

ever-present, even when it’s

unearned, undeserved.

It’s the moments, the memories,

the head on your shoulder,

the adventures, the antics.

 

It’s the concern that sneaks

into your head, the worry

that sickens you with fear.

It’s the hours on the floor,

stroking soft fur, spoon-feeding,

talking tenderly, watching for hope.

It’s heavy decisions, doubting,

wondering, praying, begging.

 

And finally, it’s goodbye,

letting go, and pain, so much pain,

so much grief, so much loss,

that you risk

with a dog.

Beware.

All day, trying to hide

the crusty gash glaring

from its swollen mound

by my purple ringed eye.

 

All day, too conscious

of others’ reactions—

naked stares, sneaky

peeks, eyes looking

anywhere but my face.

 

All day, alone in knowing

the wound came from

an innocent frisbee and not

from the hands of a man

poisoned by fear and anger.

 

All day, wondering where

I would possibly hide

if the assumptions about

my injury were true.

 

All day, aching for the women

whose truth is a humiliation

with so many more layers,

so much more gravity,

than my experience

after a silly accident.

I stop what I’m doing, becoming

completely still for the first time

in days, to envision your thin body

stretched on a steel surgical table,

legs tethered to the corners, belly

pink and freshly shaven poking

out of the hole in the blue drape,

tail, no longer wagging, tucked

out of the way, a web of tubes

and cords connecting you to

machines, masked doctors and techs

performing their ballet of precision

as they dance around each other,

making elegant cuts in your torso.

 

I squeeze my eyes together, focus

on sending across the 327 miles

something that feels at first like

a wish but means so much more.

To the doctors I send steady hands,

sound judgment, and the wisdom

to find answers. To you, my sweet

and silly old boy, to you I send

strength for healing, comfort

in your strange surroundings,

and the biggest love I can fit

into this ethereal envelope,

trusting with everything in me

it will be delivered immediately.