David Denny
David Denny’s poems have recently appeared in Chiron Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, and I-70 Review. His most recent books include Angel of the Waters and Sometimes Only the Sad Songs Will Do, both from Shanti Arts. He lives in California with his wife Jill and their Belgian Shepherd Ginny. More info: daviddenny.net.
According to the usual sources
of wisdom both ancient
and modern
there are gifts hidden
in the folds of our
sorrows.
I do not believe
in such beneficence tonight—
as if some young god
or perhaps just an ordinary
angel of mercy
were hovering nearby.
On the dark
landing
at the top
of the stairs
our sleeping dog
feels my hand
upon her shoulder:
in her half-sleep
she lifts her chin
and rolls her face
towards me
so as to lean
into my touch.
My life was wrecked
upon strange shoals:
someone said the rescue sirens
called to me
out of the mist.
If so
I never heard them.
I have painted
moonglow upon
the creek at night,
ripples along the shore
where the edge
of the water
loses itself
in the tall grass:
right there
where the cricket’s
metallic legs
spark her calypso
rhythm,
where the cicada’s
thorax shivers
her lamentation
and ours.
On the edge
of our field,
my dog Ginny
puts her nose
to a dead rat:
we stand over it
for a moment,
then move on—
we cross the field
by fits and starts
as Ginny stops
to pee and sniff
& scold the squirrels
in the tall pine branches.
One day
sooner than either
of us expects,
only one of us
will cross this field
on a sunny morning
such as this and
then not long after that
the field will stand empty
of us, the shadows
from the tall pines
walking alone
across the grass:
it’s not hard to imagine
that one day
in the not too distant
future
another dog
& another human
will feel themselves
the luckiest beings
in the whole world
to have such a field
on such a morning
laid out before them,
& their veins
will pulse with
the same joy
that flows
through our veins
today.
