Ah, grief, I should not treat you
like a homeless dog
who comes to the back door
for a crust, for a meatless bone.
I should trust you.
I should coax you
into the house and give you
your own corner,
a worn mat to lie on,
your own water dish.
You think I don’t know you’ve been living
under my porch.
You long for your real place to be readied
before winter comes. You need
your collar and tag. You need
the right to warn off intruders,
to consider my house your own
and me your person
my own dog.
by Denise Levertov, from Poems 1972-1982,
copyright ©1978 by Denise Levertov.
Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
It’s ripe, the melon by our sink. Yellow, bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes the house too…
(at St. Mary’s) may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our…
I miss you, fellow walkers – dad with double stroller, rainbow legging woman, earnest black…
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