We threw dog kibble near the shoreline, and the pond
bubbled with catfish—their mouths sieved, their tails
paddled one another, the froth of the water was loud
and wet. What else could we feed them? An irregular
heartbeat? The hopeless pitch of a human scorned?
I’ve learned nothing today except to keep my mouth
shut. The neighbor hangs purple ribbons from the oak
in her front yard, and though we chat across the cul-de-sac,
I don’t ask what the ribbons stand for. Instead, I worry
that I’m supposed to know without asking. On the news
tonight—oh, who am I kidding? I haven’t watched the news
in years. A dog barks in the distance at the same time
a feral rooster alerts us to dawn; I’d dispose of the rooster
had I a rifle and a soul dark enough to pull the trigger,
but I’ve no use for guns. Did I mention I haven’t watched
the news in years? Those school children, parishioners,
movie-goers, and innocent bystanders were killed dead,
will stay as such. I don’t know how to mourn them
or those that survived them. Best I can do is look out
this window and describe the slant of light, the beauty
just outside my reach. The setting sun ignites the underside
of the Bradford pear’s leaves almost enough for me
to ignore its odor, the setting sun blazes through the fence,
the setting sun. They say it’s beautiful, our last breath.