I remember walking up
to the fence and how
Pepper would see me
approach and come
running over to lick my
hands and look into my
huge, brown, watery eyes.
I fed him handfuls of hay
they put out for us just
over there.
How simple and beautiful
that was. I felt so glad
about being alive and here
and welcomed by everything
I wasn’t, I found as much
joy in a parfait from DQ
as an astronaut feels looking
back at the Earth thinking
he had it all when he was
down there.
Pepper, and the field of cows
by the Salvation Army are
gone, but in a way I’m still
here, feeding myself
at this interstice where my
past and present meet,
because I want things to be
simpler and less complex, like
they used to be back when
touching another living
thing without asking, as if
to say I’m glad you’re here,
was normal, even encouraged.
It’s why, when it’s time to
come running toward myself,
like a dog who hasn’t seen
its owner all day comes running,
when it hears her pulling into
the driveway, one who sniffs
through the wall the car
it associates with her,
and begins scratching at the
front door that reeks like
like her hand sanitizer,
I grab some cheddar Chex Mix
from the cupboard, and,
raising a handful of it to
my salivating mouth,
snatch some with my
reptilian tongue
the way Pepper did,
with flies of memory circling
my snout, my big, lovey-
dovey brain too big for
my neck held close, the way
a confused mother holds
her dead child’s head too
hard in order to bring him
back.
MY POETY PLACE: POEMS BY CHRIS RUSSELL 