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Saku (bottom) is dearly missed by Linda and is survived by his brother Suki (top), and his step sister, Sadie (not pictured) Saku lived from 4/89 - 1/99 physically, yet thrives infinitely on dogStar. He passed at home for which I am eternally grateful. He told me the day before his physical death that he would be going soon. I stayed home from work the following day so we could spend some exdtra time together. This poem was born from his death: |
the dog star
--for Saku, 4/89-1/99
i.
death by my side
When you could no longer stand,
I packed you up,
hoped we didn't
run out of gas.
The vet saw you
six months earlier, scribbled
notes on your bloodwork:
a struggling liver, this anemia,
dementia, bloat. I close the breath
that sours, death by my side
breathing whistles and your floating eyes.
A dog dies. You, like Susie,
black cockapoo, in the crook
of any limb. Twenty-two years
ago, the only difference.
The back tire
treads over Salt Lake City, Utah.
See me coming, sound
of my footsteps, key in the door,
the small hand reaching
to find you.
Be born again. You ten,
me thirty, when Anne Sexton is well
and a career of changing jobs is
finally over. Invite nothing
after this because you know you won't
remember the climb over,
holding the hand
of a surrogate mother,
her tumor your birth,
the death,
heat of fluorescent examining rooms,
sweat of disease, an arrangement
back to daffodil spring, a first
Valentine rose, a dozen
after performance, a treat
to yourself at the grocery
then a surprise funeral,
those same red and white carnations
and green sprigs,
a white lily to remember.
ii.
what I remember
You fit in a coffee cup,
under four weeks,
one of two black puppies,
not panting yet,
not barking yet, the clumsy
stance, open eyes darting
from my face
to car window
to sunlight
to mirror. Who is this
other face staring back, the black
eyes of loneliness shining
for the world to see?
A sniff, a misstep
down the stairs,
toenails sliding
across the linoleum.
What I remember is not fair.
Two days ago, rot
still wafting in the car, lost toenail,
the stain of you sitting
on my lap...can't help you
breathe, eat, urinate...carry you outside, lift you up
...you cannot stand
...turn your body...don't
bump into chair, door,
water bowl. You still kiss,
a frigid tongue, white gums,
eyes that see what I cannot see
in another human:
the dog star.