Selected Poems

Retriever

He is trained to wait. Having no motive
not bound to shining water, bird, or gun, 
he can still wait for my permission. 
Under his smooth coat, muscles ripple. 
I feel his hard pulse rise
when I fire the gun. His eyes
are never cautious, but wild, naked,
and open to just one word: the word is yes.

He lives for this. Not for love
dropped from my hand, but for release. 
Then he leaps into the polished air of the world,
my dark and furious emissary. His chest pumps, 
his legs churn, his red mouth closes 
on the soft, feathered bodies of the dead.

(published in Quarterly West)