Natural History Lessons

  My symbiont —  Presented to me in pixels, Called to me from the ether, Traveled to me 1,500 miles To cement our bond. With the body of a sausage, Legs of a gopher, And the jaws of a killer, He is a ridiculous golden wolf Engineered into  Perfect permanent puppyhood. Our symbiosis is primarily trot-based: Front feet flicking joyfully, Pissin’ n sniffin’ On every dam post. The ludicrous length of his tail — A stiff yellow rope  Tracking high above him, Tagging his location Like a slightly stretched question mark Marking his constant canine queries — Odor-based inquiries, Beyond my cerebral comprehensions. The uneven flop of his radar ears — One pointing sideways, One straight up Catching signals from all directions. The beloved slack and curl Of his black ripply lips As He snuffs and huffs Invisible trails along the earth. Delighted, The tight coil in my chest Releases, Worrying ceases. I see — The many hues of leaves, The singing shapes of the trees, The smoky peach moon, And, The dis

  It was her time and The Pack was ready. With a toothy grin, a fang hanging over her lip, she slipped into the night to join her furry brethren — a chorus of joyous howls in the distance marking the reunion. At first, no one noticed the odd, odd thing —  an extra tilt of salt into the stew, weeds in the garden, candy wrappers in the kitchen — Marks of a changeling. Then one day, the youngest grandchild remarked “Grandma’s little finger is missing.” Grandma’s favorite — they were known for their wild imagination and were paid no mind. The random clove of garlic, appearing on the kitchen counter, where Grandma had been chopping carrots , was also paid no heed, swept aside into the bin. Things got really interesting after that. She let the grandkids watch endless TV, cooked and ate a steak (nearly raw). A bottle of brandy was found in the beehives. Vegetables, thrown from the window. These fennel defenestrations finally made the family take notice of the changes to her head — bulging a b

On certain mornings, I wake up  and  someone i s taking  a cheese grater to my heart.   Damn dumb cells . . . they can't help  but remember how,  in a prior madness, I used to rush about early assembling my tarnished armor strapping it over tender, tired calves and harried hamstrings.   After preparing my war kit  of: nutrient dense snacks,  various varieties of caffeine,  chocolate  — perhaps to pull me through, I would leap into my blue chariot racing toward it again, a minnow flapping desperately against my ribs, gasping for breath, starving  in the dry dark cage of my chest.     I would arrive,  stand boldly   before their gray faces  and lift my flaming sword, trying to excavate their joy —  Anyone? Anyone?, Any damn ambition  beyond  maintaining position? Please! I would plead — This is so beautiful! It is all around! We are so lucky to study it so!   Implacable, they stared blankly and  I would blaze brighter.   And over the years, somehow they dulled grayer.   (How even  do