for Mavis

In the yard behind the outbuilding is a mound of dirt.
You must’ve told the girl you work with I was sad.
After your shift, you pulled a pouch of watermelon
gummies from your coat pocket. I took one the night
of our son’s baptism. That day we ate strawberry pancakes,
egg rolls, and hot tea. My father brought a gun to the church,
into our home. He said to watch out for plastic bags around
babies. That morning I dreamt my brother shot everyone.
My parents married the day Nixon said I am not a crook.
Later the three of us walked to the Christmas parade.
Every street in a small town is a dead end. One way in,
one way out. Fake neighborhoods that circle or bulb
into cul-de-sacs. My favorite part of the procession
each year is watching the horses. Hung with bells,
often the horses look bored. A donkey has a cross
on his back. I had a dream our dog came back to life.
I carried her wheelbarrow style down the road
to my old apartment. To the first room I ever held
her in. Housebroke her. I’m mad at my mother
for choices years ago. A hen can dissolve her bones
to make eggshells for her young. God gives us what
we need when we need it. Your first dream of the dog
was just two weeks afterward. Even my cursing God
happened right on time.                            On the way
to the service, we drove past a man holding
his head and sobbing on the phone.
His parked car with its hazards on, a dog on the ground
nearby. I started bleeding the day she died. I made a list
of what I saw while it happened: two hummingbirds,
a vulture, a jet, the pear tree interlaced with a vine,
the baby asking when she would be waking again,
her gray tongue, street traffic, crickets, nothing,
people walking their own dogs, the baby climbing
trees, digging in the dirt with a spoon. You wanted her
buried where the tall tree used to be. But we could spot
that from the window and I didn’t want to see.