There was a death.
Two if we count the dog.
We count the dog.
You mourned more for him
than for your mother.
Pure sadness, unalloyed
with anger,
lavish, the feeling
dogs in their dying inspire.
The gush and swell of grief
loosening all grief
as it rises and barrels to the sea.
You watched John-John
in black and white
salute his father’s coffin,
you were six and listened
to the nation call him brave
and learned to disdain
self-pity, though who better
to pity than ourselves
whose sorrows we are bound to
though we bury the cables.
We need a procession
of dying dogs, a fleet.
We need to be bathed in tears.
