CANINE

The dog refuses to walk
around the house and check
the driveway, and so
the shells will rain on the village
as they do each time she senses fear.

She has a sight beyond that
I can fathom, curled under
the heat vent, as though
the cries of children carry
in her dreams, her tail
dances against the grate.

On most nights when she makes
her final trip, the automatic light
over the garage flips on
and we can all sleep peacefully
until we realize
that God has chosen
a furry surrogate, lives
resting between her paws.

First Published in AGON Journal, Issue 0, 2021

BEFORE YOU LEAP

She always told him
that he should, no must,
“look before you leap.”

He said he understood
and would do so, almost
always, he was after all
a child and no promise
could be that absolute.

When he came out
of the anesthesia,
his arm and leg
in a cast, he saw her
scowling at him.

“I did,” he said, “I did,
I looked for quite a while
before I jumpedĀ 
off the garage roof,
just like you toldĀ 
me I had to do.”

I WISH I MAY, I WISH I MIGHT

Tonight, if the sky remains
mostly cloudless I
will go out into the yard
and select a star.
The selection is easy,
dragging it into the garage
unseen is a far
more difficult task.
It will have to be
a rather small star,
a neutron would do
but with my bad back
the weight might be
too difficult to bear.
If I cannot find
the right star, I
will try again
the next night,
and the next until
I succeed and prove
mother right, that I
can do anything
I set my mind on doing.