The landlady named the dog Seven for
a reason unknown to us. It was a beautiful name
still. Sometimes that’s how it works.
The pet lay dreaming always by the
citrus tree:
a soft pyramid of fur. Years pull
flesh and color from
every animal in similar ways. The pale tide
of memory is not greedy – I know because
it gives things back. My
own heart began its evolution then
(a comet-fast sea change). I became someone who
bought pomelos and knew oleander
to seduce and poison. A pebble
fractured my windshield and I
let it be along with
the bleached lavender on
my dashboard, tent cities
and the thrum of public radio.
Now here I am
driving down the hot days,
watching distant road become water,
then water become road again.
All the bad things turn to
bone and are gathered or spit out or
eventually buried by the same trees
where pomelos scatter the earth like
so many humble midday suns.
Here, let me choose one for
you. Let me cut
it open let me place it on
a plate let me let you place it
gently in your mouth –
Here is a word for
memories rounded like sea glass. Here is another for
tasting summer in a season of dying. Here
is a name and a
dog’s dreams and all
the other pretty things we pulled
into existence.
Jeremy Bezanger