An Animal’s Burial

“Today,” he begins, and dry lips
make toad noises in her mind—
it is a sad, an abrupt eulogy that
miscarries in the desert wind because
he is done with sentiment and fare, and
looks for water, as we all do now with
minds parched by the brown, brogue
land, by banalities, by bromide
and by the birdshit littering the
decommissioned pet burial land—
last June she and three friends, a cousin
and a brother jumped into the lake
with Harvey standing by, who made
mud imprints with his cautious steps
by the bank, and in the scintillating
lake’s embrace they were clothed in
coldness and forget, but
she remembers now what animals
allow, with what dumb offerings
they are indebted—corn cobs, sugar cubes,
fistfuls of dry grass with dirt clumps—
a plane passes overhead, a brief streak
of white that he nods to as if it were
completing the thing he was going to
say—“Today, dead pets silent whine, and
streak our slow blue lives with regret—
we remember what fools they were,
what fools we are, and where with
what prancing steps they tread.”

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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