Poem of the Week, by Jeanne Wagner
Book party! I rarely do book events and I would love to see you at the book party for my brand-new novel, Weird Sad and Silent. Please come to the launch party at Next Chapter Booksellers in St. Paul on Tuesday, May 27, at 6 pm. I’ll read a little and tell you some secrets behind the writing of the book. We’ll talk, we’ll celebrate, and there might even be some tiny gifts for you. It’s a school night so we’ll get you home nice and early, too. Click here for all the details.
My dog makes an almost inaudible tiny hoot when he wants me to get up in the morning. A low revving sound when he wants me to bring his food out to where I’m working (he doesn’t believe in eating alone). A short, sharp yip that means he needs to go out. He makes no sound at all when I pack my roller bag for a trip; he just sits in the middle of the rug with his head down.
A few months ago when he was frantically barking at something in the ceiling –a mouse? bugs? bat?–I searched for a Dogs and Wolves playlist. He froze, tilting his head this way and that, silent. When wolves began howling he looked at me, pointed his muzzle to the ceiling and began howling softly, howling and howling. It was one of the most mournful sounds I’ve ever heard. It made me want to howl too. As if on some deep level we know there are wild lives out there, wild lives we want, wild lives that are waiting for us.
Dogs That Look Like Wolves, by Jeanne Wagner
When my dog hears the neighbor’s baby cry, he begins
to howl, his head thrown back. He’s all heartbreak and
hollow throat, tenderness rising in each ululation. He’s
a saxophone of sadness, a shepherd calling for his stray.
I’ve read that baying is both a sign of territory and
a reaching out for whatever lies beyond: home and loss,
how can they be understood without each other?
Once I had an outdoor dog who sang every day at noon
when the Angelus belled from the corner church.
She was a plain dog but I could prove, contrary to all
the theologians, that at least once a day she had a soul.
I’ve always loved dogs that look like wolves, loved
stories of wolves: the alphas, the bullies, the bachelors.
We have to forgive them when they break into our
fenced-off pastures, lured by the lull of a grazing herd,
or a complacent flock, heads bent down. Prey, it’s called.
At night wolves chorus into the trackless air, the range
of their song riding far from their bodies till they think
the stars will hear it and be moved, almost to breaking,
while my poor dog stands alone on the deck, howling
into the canyon’s breadth, as if he’s like me, looking
for a place where his song will carry. Dogs know,
if there is solace to be had, their voice will find it.
This air is made for lamentation.
Click here for more information about Jeanne Wagner. This poem is from Everything Turns Into Something Else, published by Grayson Books in 2021.
alisonmcghee.com
My podcast: Words by Winter
It’s been almost a week now. I washed your blankets and hung them on the line. The mats and small rugs we scattered around on the wood floors to help you with traction are stored away. The Painter put your bed in the storage room and washed your food and water bowls. Neither of us can talk about you in public, so we don’t.
Yesterday my faithful companion and I were out for his twice-daily walk, and by “walk” I mean amble. Wander. Meander. Pete is fourteen years old now, and the boy who used to tear around the lakes for hours on end, never tiring, with me half-jogging to keep up, and who would then come home to do hot laps with the neighbor dogs in our adjoining back yard, now sways from side to side and every now and then stumbles over sidewalk heaves and steps. He breathes heavily and coughs often (heart failure), his joints are stiff (arthritis), he doesn’t notice the squirrels he used to leap after (eyes/hearing). This has happened gradually, so that I’ve had time to get used to it. Or so I thought.
Alison McGhee 