James Kimbrell
Good Grief
When someone posts on our neighborhood group
that she’s downsizing and needs a good home
for a dozen pelts of her former pets (some frozen,
some laundered) I feel a little lost. What else
have I missed? When did this kick off?
Was I wrong to bury Toby and Buddy Dog
along the back fence where once they ran,
barking at the neighbor’s malamute,
each grave marked with a paver stone
the grass creeps over, which I pull by hand
lest the mower blade cough up sparks?
It’s true. I’d love to pet them both again.
But they crossed the river with coats on
and now I have living pets that lounge
around my desk like Roman Senators
on holiday, well-fed, arguably over-loved,
frequently spoken to in sentences as if
a response might follow in perfect Latin.
They sleep on the bed, under the bed,
beside the bed, my Siamese lick-sanding
my nostrils until I rise and fill her bowl
with a morning’s worth of Meow Mix.
Our love might last forever, but we won’t.
Centuries of scheming have rendered
no footpath around the mighty Styx.
And most taxidermy is in decidedly bad taste.
So, after grooming their death coats
for decades, our neighbor resolves
it’s time to let go, and that others might
dream of stroking the fur of dead pets
they never knew. I understand nothing,
except that maybe our neighbor is due
a wellness check, and me too. There’s
no end to where grief might lead us--
booze, gambling, brushing the dead,
keeping them here with us, making
a second life of what they leave behind
because even a single hair evokes
their presence, their breath, their wait
at the door before we get home.
When someone posts on our neighborhood group
that she’s downsizing and needs a good home
for a dozen pelts of her former pets (some frozen,
some laundered) I feel a little lost. What else
have I missed? When did this kick off?
Was I wrong to bury Toby and Buddy Dog
along the back fence where once they ran,
barking at the neighbor’s malamute,
each grave marked with a paver stone
the grass creeps over, which I pull by hand
lest the mower blade cough up sparks?
It’s true. I’d love to pet them both again.
But they crossed the river with coats on
and now I have living pets that lounge
around my desk like Roman Senators
on holiday, well-fed, arguably over-loved,
frequently spoken to in sentences as if
a response might follow in perfect Latin.
They sleep on the bed, under the bed,
beside the bed, my Siamese lick-sanding
my nostrils until I rise and fill her bowl
with a morning’s worth of Meow Mix.
Our love might last forever, but we won’t.
Centuries of scheming have rendered
no footpath around the mighty Styx.
And most taxidermy is in decidedly bad taste.
So, after grooming their death coats
for decades, our neighbor resolves
it’s time to let go, and that others might
dream of stroking the fur of dead pets
they never knew. I understand nothing,
except that maybe our neighbor is due
a wellness check, and me too. There’s
no end to where grief might lead us--
booze, gambling, brushing the dead,
keeping them here with us, making
a second life of what they leave behind
because even a single hair evokes
their presence, their breath, their wait
at the door before we get home.
--
James Kimbrell’s poems have appeared in anthologies including the Best American Poetry and the Pushcart Prize Anthology. His most recent collection is Smote (2015, Sarabande Books). He serves as Distinguished Research Professor in the creative writing program at Florida State University.
James Kimbrell’s poems have appeared in anthologies including the Best American Poetry and the Pushcart Prize Anthology. His most recent collection is Smote (2015, Sarabande Books). He serves as Distinguished Research Professor in the creative writing program at Florida State University.