—FEELS LIKE MOTION SICKNESS

The Believer

We watched the fruit ripen, 

suffer and split.

It was all we could do by then.

Like everything else, the sun had

turned its back on us, suddenly selfish,

no longer neighborly or trustworthy.

Our dog went rabid, running

figure eights around the bushes, 

barking at each brittle branch as if 

the bees themselves had become phantoms 

or lepers who forget how to beg properly.

 

And still, deer came off the hill, 

sniffing whatever tufts remained, 

ripping up chunks of sod from 

the scorched aftermath, sucking

them down cotton mouthed

while lonesome blue jays flew by,

blood-smeared and battle-tested.

In the berry patch, our dog continued 

to circle while squealing on high,

an operatic finish.

I started to cry, but you told me Shush,

told me nature has a way 

of saving her young because 

she’s a mother, first and foremost.

You told me so many things

back then and I believed them all.