“Her Grave”
by Mary Oliver
green bog.
She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black
skin
from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile –
and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her
cunning
elbows,
and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the
unassuming
perfect
arch of her neck.
***
It
took four of us to carry her into the woods.
We
did not think of music,
but
anyway, it began to rain
slowly.
***
Her
wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.
great and lordly satisfaction at having chased something.
great and lordly satisfaction at her splash
of
happiness as she barged
through
the pitch pines swiping my face with her
wild,
slightly mossy tongue.
***
Does
the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat?
He
is wiser than that, I think.
dog lives fifteen years, if you’re lucky.
Do
the cranes crying out in the high clouds
think
it is all their own music?
A
dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you
do not
therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the
trees,
or the leaves that pertain to them.
Does
the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill
think
all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshment
of
her long slumber?
A
dog can never tell you what she knows from the
smells
of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know
almost
nothing.
Does
the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think
the
black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace
of
his own making?
***
She
roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come back, or
wait
for me, or be somewhere.
Now
she is buried under the pines.
Nor
will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and
not
to be angry.
Through
the trees there is the sound of wind, palavering.
The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste
of the infallible energies?
How strong was her dark body!
How apt her grave place!
How beautiful her unshakeable sleep.
***
Finally,
the slick mountains of love break
over us.
from New and Selected Poems, Beacon, 2005
Holly Orem 1997-2008