Forty Days with Maesie
Yesterday we buried the dog like an Egyptian,
encircled with toys and tokens
to go with her to whatever place it is
dogs go. Under a paw,
the pink rubber squeak she shook so hard
we wondered at her sheer desire
to snuff a heartbeat. The old tennis ball
she trotted with, the requisitioned sock,
the piece of wood she found, worked, kept
by the side door near the trail that leads up
to where we put her in the ground. We dug
at the place she ran to in the mornings,
her shit in piles still scattered in the sun.
Last night, we left the door open, the TV on,
for hours.
She was the funny-looking one, fuzzy
and pale, the crown of cream on fountain soda,
apricot spot at the tail, one eye rimmed in pink,
one ear that refused to flop over. The older dogs
stared as she scratched the empty water bowl,
stood inside when it was full. She left us
to follow window-sun around the rooms.
Her habit was to go ahead, to hoard
the ice cubes, to furrow the bed.
The world is turning to seasons she never knew.
There’ll be fires soon–and snow.
Today is the first day of what it is now.
We will miss you so, Maesie,
| Maesie |
| 5, Oct 2004 |
| Linda Dove |