[ z ē ' n ĭ t h ] -noun 1. an arch wherethrough gleams that untraveled world…
Wes Ward – Impatiens
Impatiens
by Wes Ward
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
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Facebook comments:
Awaking in a house with the absence of a recently-fallen pet one can only ruminate macabre. I bear what Ward is writing while studying ‘Impatiens’ it is raw and real. I appreciate both similes, only I wish they were not both forced to the middle. Well-done