A Wild Dog in My Chest

the twinge of discomfort in my ribcage

is medium sized, the latest new pain

I know some in my situation would call

a doc, & the doc would schedule machines

to tell me nothing or diagnose disease

so I don’t call, instead I ask my ribcage

why don’t we build a wildlife retreat?

collect fallen branches into large piles

where mice & moles, beetles & bees

can sleep & breed — my ribcage agrees

a warm March 4th, it’s 50 out, I pull on

cotton camouflage pants, a light fleece, 

work boots, work gloves, a blue cap

by the third branch the ribcage teaser

disappears, I’m young again, I believe

Post Mortem

my dead grow larger, as if to punish me for all

I failed to do, what I hadn’t time for, what I

didn’t know I needed — all those halcyon days

when love seemed lined up, ready to be taken

when joy could be enjoyed, then left behind for

the next joy — days of, years of joy with no idea

what dearth lay ahead when age would claim

its due — all you who died before your time

died in passion’s arms — Patroclus, Antigone —

you were not like I am, the living & the dead

Strong Enough to Do Without

We learn the truth about friendship 

through the death of our family & friends.

Once the punishing weight of grief winds down

we experience the presence of the dead.

They talk to us, & we talk to them.

We not only remember but feel our mutual love.

It is not that we are strong enough to do without them

but that they stay with us forever.

They appear, observe, wonder, remark, remind us

not who they were but who they are to us.

What Was Not

by Taha Muhammad Ali [my translation]

We didn’t cry

as we left.

We had no time

no tears

no farewell.

We had no idea

this was goodbye

the goodbye

so how would we have cried?

We didn’t lie awake

(we didn’t sleep)

the night we left.

That night

we had no night

no light

no moon.

That night we lost our star

our lamp.

We didn’t sleep

so how would we wake?

What February Is This?

curved rumps & lowered heads 

of thirty black cows crop through thin snow

to grass almost summer green

fern fronds arc, mossy boulders glow

broad-leaved weeds & perennials

unfurl soft green leaves

rivers swing from freeze to thaw

soft lake-ice clumps, low mounds of snow

melt in warmth & rain

hiking trails are frozen, saturated, puddled

pulsing winds fracture forests

soil shifts, houses tumble

this planet we’ve forced to meet our needs

bends every straight line

breaks down asphalt, concrete, steel

degree by degree, earth reverts to round

Le Calendrier Républicain Français, Adopted 22 September 1792

a year consists of twelve months

a month of three ten-day weeks

all honor what farm & nature bring

Véndemiaire stamps the vintage red

Brumaire fog swallows cranberry

Frimaire frost crusts the standing weeds

no more gods, death to the last king

Nivôse snow floats, flurries, drifts

Pluviôse proffers rain

Ventôse favors wind

high regard for weather, water, air

Germinal marks the rupture of seed

Floréal waves its blossoms

Prairial sheep hike to high meadow

the earth’s body, the sky’s face

Messidor farmers harvest peas

Thermidor heat hatches mosquitoes

Fructidor fruit swells, sweetens, savors

nature, people, tools, reason

finally,  Les Fêtes Sansculottides

five days (in La Franciade, six)

when free citizens dance & sing

What the Cat Thinks of Snow

oh, January snow, how

you fall, dry & light

all morning & most of

the afternoon, as if

a being — intelligent &

rational — ran the show

not that such a being

exists, no, snow’s from

a rulebook humans are

ever learning to read

these days they claim

to “know” about gravity

pressure, temperature

& yes, the ion game —

intermolecular bonds

ergo, voila, snow

yet (I’m licking my paw)

they can’t actually see

electron pairs bond

(whisker twitch) though

certain 21st-century

wunderkind skilled in

microscopy claim

to see them — but why

go on about science?

I’d rather see a mouse

running on snow

Who's to Judge

I sit in a raised box

among eleven others

while a judge (overly

fond of the qualifying

clause) delivers 

remarks about justice. 

I pay attention. I try

to map his reasoning

onto Boolean logic —

IF (x AND y) OR (NOT b)

OR k, THEN q, ELSE p — 

but I cannot parse.

When he asks me

if I believe I can weigh

evidence, make a judgment

based on the law

I say, I imagined I might

before you spoke

but you’ve convinced me

I cannot. He frowns.

He signals the clerk

to lead me down & out.

Had I stayed, I’d not

have played at being god.

The Body Does What the Body Does

purples, erupts, exfoliates

think & say whatever you will

the body is you & doesn’t give

a fig about you, it magnifies

& depletes you, elates & defeats you

your body makes or breaks you

you pay attention, fight back

or you pretend to pay it no mind

all this intention, much as it may

amuse you, wastes your time

whatever your body wants to do

it does, tra la la, despite you

Mouse Feed

one mouse steals traps — picture

one foot caught under the metal bar

three feet racing toward the hole

dragging the trap behind, she chews

her leg free, sad, but she’s alive

so far she’s stolen three traps

she’s down to one foot — picture her

slow hop to the hole, nestmates

helping her pull the trap home

feet the other mice might eat

another story is three mice lose

one foot each — picture the farce

oh, our world, rife with cameras & mics

but none expose this lair, how

mice view traps, the tales they share