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Me and My Dog

Haunting solitary city-dweller’s ruminations bring to mind Blake, Rumi, and Whitman. This poet’s dog waits for her owner to finally return, again and again. In thundering steps on the street’s pavement, linked pantoum-like lyrics meditate on the nature of existence from apartment views. You were sound asleep. I laid my hands on your face/ The drugs were floating beneath the surface of your skin// The dictionary I had on my shelf is still on my shelf/ If only I could touch the floor with the palms of my hands// If you sit here long enough you’ll see everyone you know// We are merely crossing over into another season (Out of Harm’s Way).

. . . . every day details and language of death become a means to both witness and revel in how we live. The result is breathtaking work, simple and profound.  
—Donna Cartelli. Me and My Dog. Poetry Project Newsletter. February/March 2001