WISHING A GHOST DOG
For Martin
Boomer
you true
son-of-a-bitch.
Stayed that
way
to the end
when your
missing master
didn’t
come home for days,
and never
would.
I don’t
begrudge you
biting me
the morning
I dug your
grave.
No way to
know
who beat
trust from your bones.
Left one ear
crimped close
to your
skull.
That was
before those who
would be
friends
took you in.
No one now
to try
to love you
through the fear
your teeth
and voice can hurl.
Weight of
danger
your chain
contains.
I wish from
you
a guardian
ghost
to watch
about this grove.
In a
wondering way
I hope you
know it was me
behind the
charge of buckshot
that stopped
your heart
and lungs,
that didn’t
allow some
anonymous
vet to stalk
you with
ambivalence
and a
jab-stick
tipped with
a lethal
lack of
care.
Then you
would know
I placed you
on the knoll
above your
home place
and the
trail to mine.
Your head is
looking north,
upstream.
Balsam
boughs keep dirt
from your
fur,
and an
unfinished bowl
of food is
with you.
I catch
myself
pausing now
and then.
Bending ears
for the sound
of your
tremendous voice,
no longer
annoying
and too
loud.
Nothing to
heed
in the glade
to say this
is where
you barked
out greetings
to our
friends gone missing
for good.
Garrett
Conover
