All of the Animals

Mig the boxer: the feeling

that she would bite for us

if necessary, as we casually

rode her back under black

walnut trees or in front of

the TV. Then tiny Raisin

who grew into a large, greasy-

furred jerk; in the hours

before she went to the vet

for the last time, we held her,

crying in front of the fireplace as

she licked a bowl of ice cream.

A series of gerbils: grimly squeaking

their wheels in a dark bedroom,

soaking pounds of cedar with

their pee. Outside animals:

Pussywillow who showed up

one day in our tent and thanked

us for her wet food with eleven

dead birds over a summer;

salamanders, toads, a turtle. Two

turtles. The beta fish who might

kill each other; the ants we watched

for hours, handing them tiny

pieces of olives and meat after Taco

Night, which they blindly carried

to their tiny hills and disappeared.

All of the other dogs: the comforting

rectangles of them as they slept,

allowing us to cry or be stupid or

unpopular, licking our hands, lumps

of gentle curled waiting; and all

of the birds, so many, too many:

one I see pretty often in my head,

a dove with a badly broken wing who

followed me, asking for something.