Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Down the back of the house are two seats
made of simple wood and wrought iron, old
garden benches riding the slope of the yard.
In the late afternoon sun, now the trees
are bare, they proclaim their solidity and offer
sanctuary for an agitated soul. I settle,
shift about a bit, and my eye is drawn
to the pile of leaves under which Michael
is buried. His short, rambunctious life
disturbed the place for only three months
with a manic headlong rush of tails and claw
before his back was smashed on the road.
We put him in the ground and placed rocks
and crystals about the spot to remember
him by. A shrine to a flare.
Somehow, I’ve survived my own wildnesses,
and with the cancer scar healing I’m happy
to abjure public display and stay hidden.
I watch a currawong glide past the maple tree
soundlessly. The leaf carpet almost rustles
in the fading light. There’s a red streak in the sky.
24 May 2017