Not everybody. Not
me or those redwoods up north
in the heat wide and strong
and tall. My only death was a dog.
*
When I sat there wishing for shrinking,
that can’t be strength.
*
I held a gun once
in my backyard.
It was Christmas Day.
And once in those redwoods the
dog fell in near the waterfall—
I remember a movie from childhood
but that was a cat
so I have nothing to go off of here.
*
I have no god. Is that
strength? Am I not saying:
I am strong enough.
Thank you, but I’ll take it from here.
*
The house I first lived in
with the rabbit in the back
and the memories I have stolen,
the toad in the dogs mouth,
not the dead dog, another, one I never knew.
*
My father has the cancer cut
from his back and later twists
in the mirror to cut the stitch.
Strength? And after the death
He waits ‘til the sun sets—is it?
