FLYING KITES ON MT. CARDIGAN, NH
Unravelling plastic, I discover that my osprey
has an immense wingspan,
and talons as thick as treelimbs,
equipment perfect for carrying screaming children skyward,
rippping yapping dogs to shreds.
On this crowded mountaintop there's no shortage of dogs or children.
I ask my bird, "What am I to do with all these pieces?"
In response, she flaps her wings angrily.
I'm all thumbs. Dad used to assemble my kites.
On alternate spring Saturdays
we purchased paper versions at Sy's Drug Store.
My sister El and I flew them on the vast expanses
of the # 7 School playground lawn.
Later, when the paper ripped, we turned the thin wooden slats
into bows and arrows. And when Dad left home,
we abandoned kite flying
and took up mountain biking.
The wind tears the directions out of my hands.
Sue and Sally, older, wiser, more patient,
help me assemble my kite,
then launch their own.
Sally's multi-colored parrot
tugs gently at its tether. Sally lets out line.
Her bird hovers on the stiff afternoon breeze.
She beams like a small child.
Sue's brown gingham hawk hesitates,
then takes to the cloudless blue sky like a real bird-of-prey.
Sue mutters to her swaying bird to stay aloft.
My osprey tugs at my line, teasing me
like the kids in elementary school,
who, everyday at lunch,
banged on their metal buckets
and yelled themselves hoarse:
"Hey gooney, gooney, gooney, gooney. . . "
As I ran then, I run now.
My bird twirls like an errant baton,
then smashes on the rocky ground.
This silly scene repeats itself all afteroon.
Kite dismantled, stuffed in pack,
I am not discouraged.
Next weekend, I'll put my past behind me.
. . .
IRELAND
People die, are buried. They lie neatly in rows, like matchsticks,
under the frozen ground. Relatives come to pay their respects. Rather than
look at one another, they focus their gaze on the distant hillside.
One man says to another, "They should turn on the heat here."
The other replies, "Hell, the dead don't care."
Says the first, "Yes, maybe it's better to be dead on days like this."
The second man nods, leans down, and pats the ground softly, as if it
were the flanks of an old horse.
. . .
MOREOVER, THE DOG
Lost: One dog named God. Will come when you call; may feign
indifference. Has fleas, ticks, maybe heartworm. Hasn't been bathed in
several weeks. Enjoys having hot water poured on her food. Won't jump on
the furniture. Used to chew bones, but is now old, has only three teeth.
Might chase deer, but prefers to haul ass after squirrels.
Has been impounded twice, both times for biting apostles. Keeps a
list which reads, "Ten more apostles to go." Is goal-oriented, won't give
up. Wants to know what will be done with the cat's body if she catches,
kills her.
Lacks respect for Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Baptists, lead
singers in Christian rock and roll bands. Sticks and stones may break her
bones, but names will absolutely kill her.
Howls at the full moon when its hidden behind the clouds. Won't pee
on fire hydrants, prefers to squat next to them. Won't shit in the house.
Won't shit on the lawn unless it's Sunday.
Has, for some time, wanted to go to church, but not having thumbs,
is Biblically impaired.
Once joined a gospel choir, but left practice early to go roll in
the mud.
Claims to be a one-owner dog. Likes to read in the front seat of old
cars. Is most content when head is sticking out of the car window.
Is capable of answering prayers, but will only do so in a roundabout
fashion.
Will sing for her supper, but beware: is tone deaf.
Has exhibited an ambivalent attitude towards religious figures. Recently kicked by parish priest, who broke two of her ribs. Now walks
with a hitch in her gait.
Will bark to be left outside. Will bark to be let inside. Will bark
when stuck in the middle.
Homelessness has been a problem in the past. Doesn't like to eat
out of garbage cans. Isn't at all proud. Will accept handouts.
Has no identifiable markings. Is black from tip of nose to end of
tail. Has no ear tatto, no visible scars. Soul is white, has a few
cross-hatchings. Venial sins include disobeying elders. Mortal sins include adultry. Only tag is a Saint Christopher medal. Won't carry an
organ donor card, but will, after death, gladly part with corneas.
Has been to obedience school. Failed miserably, twice.
Most definitely a slacker. Enjoys summer vacations, watching Lassie
re-runs, drinking grape Kool-Aid, sleeping under the porch. Is bothered
by T.V. talk show hosts, evangelists. Last seen travelling alone.
Couldn't be dangerous. Isn't armed.
