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All That Remains
by Kristina Woodhillby the end of this
you may think me a harsh
unfeeling woman,
scabbed over, festering,
needing just a little time
for healing
regroup
rethink
reconsider
requiem en terra pax
a day ago
i discovered a dead dove
on our front walk,
autumn-gray body stiff, head to the side
eyes sunken, introspective,
feathers still soft
as though just preened,
cleaning its quills
for the end of its story soon penned
i always carry the dead
to the back pasture,
those not eaten by our cats,
mice of a certain species,
gophers with skins remarkably thick,
bits of the bile-coated or filled organs
that would dry on the concrete,
stick to our boots;
offered up for sky burial
a great hawk
claimed the huge gopher
last spring;
we did not see the lift off
to the corner fence post,
but he sat there for a measured time,
we watching with binoculars,
his beak and head pulling sharply
easily, relentlessly
side to side, up and down,
a respectful feast,
a clean ending
hours before i found the dove,
we stood graveside,
supporting our friend,
comfort words spoken, read, sung;
his mother
pumped full of fluid
layered in makeup
dressed in her finest
laid in a casket
pillowed
primped
blushing burial bride
buried where no one would see her again
an old egyptian
tapped me on the shoulder while there,
offered me his latest urns
for storing her trinkets,
precious objects,
those items worn on rare occasions
of which, he assured me,
this was one;
i told him he was late, as usual,
her house and belongings
already claimed for ransom,
payment, bills upon bills,
ad human mausonauseum;
he tsk-tsked
back where he belonged
replaced by
four young feral cats
romping through the gravestones,
racing up the ancient arborvitae
lining the narrow lanes,
one kick-kicking the edge
of the bright green astro-turf blanket,
spread for us to occupy
while paying our respects,
a precise rectangle of 30 by 20 foot tidiness
covering everything
that dared stare us in the face
i would be the cat
who kicks the edge,
claws back
to expose layers
wrapped in layers,
buried as deeply
as that which must
be hidden
this morning
i strolled out back
wondering about the dove,
the coming rain,
the hinted at snow,
and there it was!
in the softest downy
pile you can puff
with one breath;
i swear i heard
wings
and a breeze-fed
exhale
11/03/2013
Author's Note: sometimes you laugh, sometimes you cry, cats and dove were there, and so was I
Posted on 11/03/2013
Copyright © 2024 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 11/04/13 at 01:36 PM another fine write Kristina. a pen is certainly not wasted in your hand and neither is the ink or the paper or your power of observation as is seeming your second nature. |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 11/11/13 at 12:34 AM Good poetic story telling Kris. One of my cats, the more feral of two, I daily put on a leash in my fenced in back yard, to keep her from climbing the fence and getting away. Despite the leash, she often catches tiny black field mice or small birds like sparrows. She plays with them for a while...until they're dead, but won't eat them. I then have to go out and clean up the mess...yuck! I always seem to get there after the fact. |
| Posted by Veronica Phoenics on 12/03/13 at 03:25 PM i found this poem really incredible. Pictured it and held my breath to the end, got a bit lost in the middle, before the revelation came over me. What a powerful, intricate, layered write, superb! |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 01/15/14 at 12:06 AM If this is festering, I await the later stages of decomposition with exacerbated breath... |
| Posted by Rob Littler on 09/02/14 at 03:44 PM a cat, a dove, YOU, and now us. Sometimes I can't help but incorporate something and make it part of my brain tissue. I like where this has taken me. |
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