When I leave for three months
in southeast Asia
I ask Beau to wait until my return
Before leaving this Earth
Although we also say our goodbyes.
About a week before my return
My ex-wife emails me
Not sure Beau will make it
And while I am flying home
The always happy,
always kind and affectionate,
highest jumper in his class,
the fleet of foot gentleman
who understood far more than he could show,
our Beau takes his last breath.
He looks palsied in death
Eyes opened
Lips parted
His fur as soft and golden to the touch
As it has ever been
Legs stretched out
In the way he would love to do
You can see him shaking with pleasure
wrapped in a sheet
then buried in the yard
Between two cedar trees
With some dog food
A seashell from the Indian Ocean
His collar and tags still on him
And a piece of the rare candy
He’d sometimes delight in the sugary first rush of
Licking his lips
And then grimacing with disdain
for the bitter ginger aftertaste.
Life’s like this I think
as we cover him with earth
and a stone with his name on it,
painted with his favorite red nail polish,
a libation of red wine,
sandalwood incense burning,
and two hawks who soar high in the sky
circling over Beau’s buried body
calling “he flies with us now”
for their fallen brother.
He was such a good dog.
* * * * *
love life of clams
the love life of clams
is poorly understood
and being the shy creatures we are
i can tell you only certain things
without blushing.
for starters i’ll say
we enjoy very long periods of foreplay.
indeed, many think,
foreplay is all there is in the life of a clam
and they’re not all that wrong
it’s something we clams do for hours
dare i say entire seasons without cessation
excreting eggs and sperm by the millions
sometimes the very same clam
ushering both into the world
rocking back and forth
with the flow of the tides
with the pull of the moon
laughing while switching sexes
one day female
the very next male
our essence blended
into one multi-sexual organism
open to every other clam
without shame or grief
bodies buried in the mud,
faces buried in the sex organs
of each other and of ourselves
switching sexes repeatedly
and not only don’t we care,
but i can tell you
from personal experience
we are awash with joy
with libido and saline
free from certain sad mammalian quandaries
the chasing about looking for yet another puzzle piece
thought to be missing
the rarity of finding a mate
Winter Fog
During the night a warm front
Passes over the frozen snowpack
And with it a sense of hope
And forbearance
Of limited visibility
Thickened air
And pregnant odors
Captured in foggy droplets
That wolves and hunters know
Air warmer than the earth
Cats mewling
And we too mewling
In darkened bedrooms
Resentment, regret, and sorrow
Now hidden in wondrous fog
Cape Birds
I am incapable
Of leaving the Cape
Held here
By the flight of
Tiny birds
Skimming
Across the inlet,
Soaring in an unfathomably complex unison,
The speed of their reaction,
The focus of their movements,
The joy they manifest,
Their intentions,
Their desires,
The mystery,
Of the Cape
Revealed,
Though not understood,
In their flight,
The simple,
Benign,
Everyday,
Extraordinary,
Quiet beauty.
The beatitudes.
Of god.
I just don’t get it,
I say.
And then I do.