The Field Spaniel
There is the burn of twilight.
There is the smell of grass that my father cut.
There is the sweat of my shirt,
the scratches on my arm,
the lost straws of hay stuck in my shoe.
There is my breath, heavy from my run to the house.
There is the shaking of my hands,
the adrenaline of my fear,
the hope I could get here in time.
There is my father, crying.
There is the hollow in my throat,
the knowing.
There is the dust of my mother’s car,
the gravel her tires spit back at us,
the buckle of my knees,
the wrenching cry that won’t come out.
There is my brother, running after her.
There is the fading sound of her engine.
The screams and the arms,
the reaching for her.
The belief she will stop.
There is what happens when he loses his faith.
There is that guttural sound he makes.
There is my body, hopeless in the grass clippings.
My face, weeping in the crook of my wet arm.
My dog, who wags his tail by my side.
There is the whimper of my Field Spaniel,
the nuzzle of his cold nose,
the searching of his tongue.
There is my father, now, holding
my brother, cradling him.
There is this dog, barking and barking, worried to see my face.
