Walking Other People's Dogs

    They keep the parks with tails
    and piss and tongues.

         . . . other end of the leash is bathed
         and powdered. Red-hooded.
         Squinting out the sun.

    They pay attention and ask only
    the same in return. Beg. Whimper. Whine.

         . . . busy yanking back at the yank.
         Pulp steam, paper from logs—all
         in a day's throb.

    They love a squirrel. Would eat it—gnaw
    right up a raw middle—to prove that.

         . . . hate ice-ripped streets and
         warrior clouds staking claims
         over the sun's gore in the sky.

    They woof their love. Woof too
    to ask what the leash loves.

         . . . Goodboy Slowdown Hurry.
         Don't sniff at the babies.
         Don't step on the bums.


    Memento

    Full of holes, my voice leaks;
    it's been so loved by the melodious
    worms. They work hard. That's
    how I want my song to go.
    Though I have to creep up to sing.
    I lean my elbows
    on a gravestone, my face lightened
    by nightair's fleeting cool.

    Friends' faces on a fractured
    moon—barely seen. My words
    slur into the trees: never
    a clear farewell from the dead. Only
    loving little traps laid
    for the living. A tireless want
    to make better in death
    what we made in life.




    Bio Note
      Nance Van Winckel's recent poems appear in Paris Review, New Letters, Virginia Quarterly Review, Field, Kenyon Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Massachusetts Review, Gettysburg Review, and Ploughshares. A third book of poems, After A Spell, appeared in '98 with Miami University Press, and a third collection of short stories, entitled Curtain Creek Farm, was published in July with Persea Books. She teaches in the MFA Programs at Eastern Washington Uuniversity and Vermont College.

    Contents

     



     Nance

     Van

     Winckel