Blessings of a Dog

--Grant Clauser

        "You must praise the mutilated world." Adam Zagajewski

She chases the threadbare tennis ball

across the kitchen, dives under a chair, slides

to catch it mid-roll then trots back

bearing the wet gift in her mouth

and asks with her eyes and paws

for me to throw it again. And I do,

again and again repeat this simple joy,

until tired she throws herself onto my lap

and gnaws my knuckles. Sometimes I want

this forever. The way a perfect fall morning

lingers in the scent of walnut trees.

All the grief of a summer we carried

like water, spilling with each labored step.

She's still a pup, has enough play in her

for twelve years or so. I know how that goes.

You love, they love. Everything goes on

like it should until it doesn't. She doesn't

know there's something broken in the world

that a ball can't fix, like a bearing that makes

the machine run smoother. Like the smell

of woodsmoke in the air that reminds

us of childhood innocence, even though

something in the distance is burning.