No one pronounced him dead.
They just dug a hole and covered
his wet coat with soft soil
where Mom used to water
her impatiens. That night,
I snuck out the backdoor
and, with my hands, scooped
the dirt away from him.
Crying like a boy from a film
with subtitles and mostly gray
horizons, I carefully lifted his head,
removed his red, nylon collar,
and then, like a drunken father
handling his infant, dropped
his head against the dirt.
For a moment, I heard a whimper,
I sensed a stir; the clouds
gasped from afar, pleading me
to leave the dog alone.
As the rain began, I covered
him with the same dirt and smoothed
a new plane for Mom’s impatiens.
***
Wes Ward
Wes is currently studying creative writing at Johns Hopkins University and teaching high school English.
