BURYING THE DOG
I am worried about you; it is hot
and the rooted top layer, crabbed and matted,
is ten inches deep. I notice for the first time
how your neck pleats like an accordian
when you look down at your work.
Still, this is a gentle spot—moss, pinkie ferns, wild violets
never cut before. Two hours on, once you’ve hacked
your way through, shade spills in, cool as sheets
on the soft soil we will lie her in.
I search myself for feelings—
was that me sobbing as the dog died last night?
What is she now but another absence—
the snuffled greeting missing at the door—
on the pile of losses rising?
You bear her outside cradled,
the way you have done for months,
carrying her up the stairs to bed where,
in the moment before you set her down,
I could hardly bear it, the both of you
such dear, dear old things.
Together we lower her.
Her head flops in first, like a turn in sleep;
we arrange the paws under and wordlessly
scatter dirt. I reach for a spade.
You add stones against coyotes and bears.
As we finish, as we pat the earth,
ants emerge. How grateful I am
for their orderly procession, one by one tracing
the outline of the fresh mound.
LAURA STANLEY is a lifelong poetry reader. She began writing only very recently; this is her first published poem. She previously worked many years as a food journalist/editor and sustainable food systems activist. She lives in Brooklyn, NY.