I.
Yesterday my old beagle almost found a dead rat
with his young nose.
Flattened in the middle of the road, a dried husk.
Aged pancake with shrivel tail. Rodent jerky.
And so forth.
II.
The silent heart monitor glued to my sternum tracks life.
A minuscule button to push when things don’t feel right,
an invisible report transmitted to those who suppose they
know my heart better than I.
And so forth.
III.
My digital photo album dings, reminds me of what once was.
Or twice was. Today a picture of Miss-Miss pops up.
Right before, and then during. Can death be during?
The IV still stuck in her furry leg. Her soft-soft swollen body
on a blanket nest. My daughter’s fingerknitted preschool scarf
wrapped around her neck, token for safe travels.
Her face puddled by gravity. A wet puddle in my lap, now,
when I think back.
And so forth.
IV.
Last spring, the peach tree of succulent velvet fruit, it
up and died on me. One week an explosion of blushing
pink-blossom fireworks. The next week, a shrivel, a drop.
Complete surrender. Soil nematodes, I found out much later.
Sudden peach tree death.
Lucky thing, I don’t believe in bad omens. Or good ones.
My husband went into surgery the day the first bud opened
with a spring in its petals. Chapters later, on our sunshiny porch,
feeding tube wired into his gut, pain meds on board, when
the baby peaches started falling like confetti.
And so forth.
V.
I tell my beagle, leave it. No good, that crass carcass, that
shrunken bag of something or other.
I yank him home on the leash and hand him a good, good
treat. Tell him about Miss-Miss.
If one had to write a poem about sorrow, her eyes would
have been the opening line.
Fuzzy infant peaches cut off from mama tree one
at a time. Fetal-positioned leaves that let go
and accept the fall from grace. If now isn’t during,
then what is?
Through the recovery tunnel, my husband
can still see dogs that are and the ones that were.
On my cracked chest, the monitor beeps out life’s rhythms
without sound.
VI.
And so forth.
