Bella
Muscled, timid and curious,
her little face so pretty, belying the notion of symmetry
as beauty, little white paws that prance in the jauntiest of walks,
barely touching the ground –
what is it to know she may be gone,
like that, with no warning or preparation.
The last time I saw her she was exploring the chaise lounge,
her soft rose of a nose, a quiver.
I wonder now why I ever get upset,
and wish any moment to pass more quickly than the next.
I must settle into this pain, read it on a map, stretched flat, unfolded,
though, still with lines,
imagine my aching grief held in hands of sky,
galaxies as pores,
wells to hold,
and use my grief like paint,
throat an arrow
a piercing point
that centers the eye of the bull,
asks love
to ride without a ticket,
gathers stars, and plants them,
like fairies
in buds.
Jane says,
“Maybe she found her boldness.”
Jane sweeps
petals fallen
from a 200 year old tree,
a peach tree overlooking the bay,
gnarled with knowledge of pain,
that continues to reach, tangle, and fruit.
Bella, if only I had treasured the last time I held you,
and now, I realize, I did. You made it clear from the very beginning
you were your own energy pattern on loan,
and each hug was first and last.
