THE DOGS ARE SINGING



My father understands the ravage

of crow’s wings spread

    across the sky like a funeral.

    You see, sometimes there aren’t enough

pills in the bottle

    to separate death from the lunar weight

    of life. For instance, this morning

the kitchen gleamed,

guarding its canned goods

    like last resorts

    in the pantry. Once again the phone warned

against leaving the house:

the ringing was church bells.

     Also the orange pharmacy bottle

     was empty. Its emptiness reminded him of something.

Then a fantastic blackness swept the sky.

Suddenly, the empty plates

    shot blanks from the table and where the clock

    hung yesterday there was a crazy face:

manic talk talk of time,

yammering little maestro conducting

    minutes, a harsh

    Oriental symphony.

You see, sometimes morning greets him

like an angry dog.

    Sometimes church

    bells clatter like silverware.

Every morning I call to ask if he’s all right.

This morning he tells me

    there’s something he can’t quite

    put his finger on:

The sky is full as a blood blister, the dogs are singing.
Everywhere, he whispers, such perfectly coherent rage.



*Published in Words and Images, 2004