On the Resurrection of Beloved Dogs (poem)

“Everything is mortal. It dies. But its parts don’t die. Its parts become something else. And we know that when we bury a dog in the garden. And with a rose bush on top of it.”

(Mary Oliver, interview with Krista Tippett)

Beloved Otis.

Beloved Otis.

Perfect inverse proportion:

as your days wane,

your hours on the grass

increase.

Suburban dog you have become,

so you cannot wander off

into the woods to die alone

though I think your bones and sinews,

pleading in their conclusive pain,

call you yet to do so.

So you sit in the yard.

You shiver in the cold.

And still you prefer it.

And why not?

The pain cannot be abated.

So why suffer within false walls?

Not, when you hear the earth

beckoning you home…

O! how I wish to learn the lesson

you offer there on the lawn,

the same our last gone dog did:

no fear of the grave we dig in the yard,

nothing but a natural laying-next-to,

no haunting forethought of death.

This is our small civil disobedience,

in full submission to natural law.

The poet lover and griever of dogs says

that when we bury our dogs in the garden,

a new rose bush atop, we enact the holy truth

that in death, the small parts do not die,

but become something else.

Dare anyone call that something other than resurrection?

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