The icy blue pearl granite headstone
seems to echo my drastic embrace
as I wrap my heart around carved lilies,
an imperial black vase bearing plastic feverfew,
that sniffling poem by Pablo Neruda
you read to me back when Flash lost his eyes,
then later his fight:
Ai, I’ll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile
I try to remember the supermoon sidewalks,
our combined shadows crawling like wendigos
through the rumpled grass of cluttered lawns,
the disapproving clicks of your tongue
at all the lazy Susans.
Flash grinned his happy hunter’s grin,
pendulous ears caressing the off-color earth
as his prolonged body waddled along.
Your hand, patched with cancer and old war stains,
shielded the fading youth in my bones
as I held on too tightly to Christmas Eves,
Alabama catfish Thanksgivings with small cousins,
cat-eared backpacks sparkling pretty pretty pink.
About the Author
A three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Megan has authored five poetry collections: “Bipolar Lexicon” (Unsolicited Press, 2018); “Blatherskite” (Clare Songbirds, 2019); “A Mourning Dove’s Wishbone” (Cyberwit, 2022), “A Cat May Look Like a King” (Dancing Girl Press, Summer 2026), and “Coals to Newport” (Cyberwit.net, 2027).
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