March 2023
Author's Note: In our neighborhood, there was a woman who lived alone. Her name was "Patsy". She was 92. Once a day, every day, about two in the afternoon when the sun was warm, she would walk her dogs. They were small dogs, and scraggly-looking. Honestly, they fell into the "yapper" category. It was unclear who was leading whom, in fact it often seemed as if they were pulling Patsy around the block. She would get dressed up for the occasion with more than adequate make-up, and always, a string of pearls for her daily walk with her yappers. One afternoon, I was stepping out of the house, and there was Patsy with her dogs shuffling along, trying to control the two of them who were jumping all over and barking. She stopped, and as if in a moment of lucidity looked directly at me and said, "Aren't we lucky to have dogs to love us?"
Lines on a Dog’s Face
Wallace said, "What the eye beholds may be The text of life," and in this case it is The Springer, Cynthia, whose eyes Are the brown corridors of vacuity, Moral deserts where the absolute Nothing Is, or nothing but her repetitions, The fence line patrol, the daily quarrels With the cat, begging always for scraps And a nap to sleep it off, then waiting Alert for something to be known. Agent of operation, living primordium, Memoir of Something clearly in her stare Which would say only, "I have known this For a very long time, retriever Of the stick locked in crocodile teeth, Living the life of the fanciful Scenario, chasing doves, the evening Meal, her wrinkles busily playing Out a program, a contemporary opinion, The repetitions that govern her earth, and mine.
“Lines on a Dog’s Face” was first published in Oxford Magazine, then later in an anthology
by St. Martin’s Press, Dog Music: Poetry about Dogs
©2023 Michael Gessner
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