Do you know that spot near
Harpersville
where the Susquehanna leaves its
long bend
to straighten out for eighty
miles pushing
up bridges and roadways at
certain times of the year
when the snow comes and then
again when it melts
hauling mud from the mountains
down
on to the smoke of the valley
below
where it is welcomed back by no
one but the river?
There is a dead dog there, his
eyes glisten like jelly
his coat once yellow is now ash,
the bone still bone
But draped with useless flesh
that meshes to earth
as if it grows there. I once knew
his name.
I remember a day when I was
fishing and this was long time ago.
I was in a boat set on the ocean
invisible like light on a mirror
so blue and brilliant was the sky
I caught a pogy that day, the
first mate heavy in his yellow
The man wanted a snapshot of the
fish for the fish was large.
I took that pogy in his final
moments inside the roundhouse
as he heaved and twisted up his
belly
thrashing for an ounce of
seawater
I held him tight there, selfishly
keeping him from the ocean.
And he was a selfish fine supper,
tasty
though today I want to put that
fish back, the way I want to bury King,
the way I want you to forgive me
