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
You see, sometimes morning greets him
like an angry dog.
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