indivisible

it neither speaks nor walks

but my girlfriend makes out with it.

Half shade, half sun,

Up against the maple, 

I remember

a slow, warm Saturday walking towards

the park where children played,

remember

something like three years ago

on a surreal afternoon in summer—

lying, careless in the grass,

a friend and I making promises on a dandelion chute,

never to cut our hair

—it fell long, dark, and glossy

Over our bare white childhood shoulders—

And my knowledge, even then:

I could never make that promise.

II.

Feeling elegant, back to trunk,

hips nestled at the base, legs curved one over the other

out into the sunshine-dappled—

chewing on my sandwich.

A wasp takes interest in me,

moving too close for comfort, 

wanting to touch my skin.

I did not used to mind their close danger

nor the tickle of their small feet, 

soft and mindless,

but now I have

a newfound fear—

Three weeks ago,

we all were eating pizza on the porch at dusk,

I remember Krayna’s little dog’s sharp yelp and

how she ran to gather him up,

frazzled, searching frantically for the stinger’s tiny puncture,

kissing and fondling him like

an infant who’d almost drowned.

She brought her dinner inside,

watched him limp, 

held ice against his small body,

all of her a heartrending chorus of 

Lucky, Lucky, Lucky, 

I know nothing

But how I love you.

500 miles from that porch and those faces,

It’s not the bee’s soft feet I fear,

nor even the stinger and its

momentary pain,

but

what could happen after,

I mean

what could not.

On the porch where the flies buzzed

and we sat with candles in the dark

chatting, nonchalant,

enjoying wine or cool ice water,

the ends of my clipped hair

brushed my browned shoulders, as I turned

towards the lit door, where,

I knew they sat,

canine and woman,

in their own, solemn, perfect universe.

I cast a fishing line and caught

a River God; a great salmon he was,

steeped in brine,

river-wise.

I brought him home, slit him twain, scooped out his

deep pink core, and laid the slim fold of him in the

reverence of fire. The flame washed

the steel of his scales,

clean as shale. 

For dinner I sucked the filet of his right side;

his left side was my wife’s. My ancient

dog gobbled his guts, chopping up 

the sloppy soil of his core,

soft and thick. 

The dog laid out, his jaw drawn with juice,

and sighed. My young wife laid back

(we were only nineteen), smoking,

with me in between.

But the copper-bite taste in his smoked flesh was

some poison. My dog was first to die, licking

his lips. Then I watched my wife.

I curled up in her clutch, my heart racing

and stamping my chest and limbs,

quick as life.