In the late afternoon, the dogs
retreat to the bedroom,
the coolest room
in the house.
High
window open, hardwood floor
a blonde sea on which they
float in and out of sleep,
only their paws stir, fitfully,
chasing. The older
dog lost in the fervor of woods, long
brush, the golden hills on which she
ran free as a pup.
The black dog is a symphony of
sleeping noises: small barks, yips,
even snorts announce his reign
at the foot of the bed. You can
step over him, walk heavily
by his head and he will not look
up. He is trusting. And sleeps
with the gloom of the innocent
although just last week
he ran off and spent the night
on the hill, returning at 8 in
the morning, panting, coat
filled with sandspurs, torn
bits of leaves.
Only the youngest sleeps lightly.
Her eyes, half shuttered in sleep
wait for the moment she sees
me put on my shoes
expecting, correctly, a walk.
Then she is up, dancing, dancing,
her face a mask of expectation
her tongue a pink exclamation
of drool, as she tilts her head
side to side, ready, ready.
"The thought that is no thought, like the thought of a stone. Only thought resembles; it is completely invisible as pleasure or pain." Rene Magritte
In the night when anything is possible, spirits enter the room. Parents come
Gently back , holding pieces of needlepoint out of which they have woven a
New life, astounding colors with fierce bright purity, unmistakable intent.
Black and red, juxtaposed with the savage blue of a Carolina sky, the dry
Brown summer hills of California, ready to ignite.
These are the hours in which I know you are there, near my bed, sleeping
As softly as you always have. I do not know if animals have human
Thoughts, or if what they dream makes their legs twitch in sleep, paws
Bending, as if running, and if those dreams are spoken in tiny yips of fright
Or pleasure. All I do know is that your absence creates thoughts, the
Possibility of a privileged world in which language is unnecessary. You are
Always here with me, in this room or that, and I know nothing that you did
Not know. Companion, friend, I walk the long hills each day, my hand
Holding your empty leash, until night comes again and I say goodnight,
To you, whether or not you can hear me, as you run the hills, free, absolute,
Completely invisible as pleasure or pain.
"Without Matter, Light Is Invisible." Rene Magritte
That last day, when we walked along the beach, I could name each wave,
As if naming a thing could stop time, give it a function like sine or cosine
That abstracts, precludes death. In the face of inevitability, we are
Most alive, and the day hides nothing from our eyes. Each dune is a singular
Crest of sand; we walk slowly forward, our feet sinking into the grains,
As we begin down toward the car. On the ride home over the mountain,
The curving water disappears behind us, the valleys stretching in their green
Coat of winter. Tiredness comes over us when we reach the house,
Carrying the black and white striated stones we found on the beach,
The smooth feel of their weight tumbled miles toward that shore to our
Hands. I watch you slowly climb the stairs, then lower yourself on your
Bed, barely able to move. Your fur holds the smell of the ocean you love.
I give you the pills that hold off the pain, but they no longer work.
The next morning we know it is time.
Nothing explains death.
Absence has a shape bigger than light. It absorbs the cold body,
Until the ground claims that exquisite brightness.
Days later, we lay
These black and white stones on your grave, high
on the hill you loved,
Their heaviness holding down the pain we could not
bear
To allow you to endure.
All we have left are photographs.
In these, they run in their young
fur, free
and young, the grass around them
bending to their will
their legs a blurred sweet motion.
Older, they grew tired;
rising from arthritic limbs
to barely stand in greeting;
still, we could not bear to let them
go. We helped them up into the car
we fed them small, intangible
treats. Until they left us, dog by dog,
bereft.
Now they lie beside each other
on the hill. Their bones are chalk
their fur, thin ash.
Above their grave a white rosebush
sends its flowers out
to climb around their lives.
