Do Not Disturb
It’s past time to top off my morning joe,
but two house finches, probably a mated pair,
are visiting the nearest feeder, cracking seeds
open in their beaks. A third finch balances
on the Russian sage, stripping purple blooms
for breakfast.
Even with my propped feet
falling asleep on the patio tabletop, coffee
cooling in my mug, and the last cup turning acrid
in the pot, I won’t disturb their meal. A dove lands
on the feeder across the yard and points one wing
skyward like a threatful blade—this display
a military drill, preparation for battle. Is the dove
disappointed no other bird encroaches? Yesterday
a barn swallow divebombed the resident roadrunner
who’d been poking under a bush for a lizard or insect,
some living bit of protein to consume. The chastened
bird rushed away, matching the shape of its cartoon
namesake, as the swallow swooped and strafed.
In this spot of shade the air is cool and finally free
of smeary, stinging smoke from wildfires
far from here.
There’s war enough in the world,
and strife, without my adding to it. I can wait
for the finches to eat their fill and fly together
to an indeterminate elsewhere. I can wait to rise
and test these tingling feet on rough concrete,
to go inside, refill my mug, and return to perch
at this lookout, where I drink in peace: to peace.
The Golden Hour
The terrier dozes in his favorite spot of sun,
on the supple back of the recliner. Its red leather dips
like a lower lip, like a smile hammocking him.
The retriever raises drowsy brown eyes, and when
I pat my thigh, she hurries to my side. Fingers sink
deep in blond fur—that’s all she needs to send her
wagging into bliss. I’ve reached an age where
I’ve begun doing the math, estimating how many
good years I have left, how many future dogs
I’ll have, what kind, what size—or should I say
how few? When I indulge this forward thinking,
guilt comes on. My rough calculations don’t account
for the subtractions of these two lives, much less
grief multiplied. So I pray to cease
all musing that deducts each millisecond from our time.
Let me appreciate this moment—it’s all that’s guaranteed.
Let me relish its gifts of sunlight and two dogs
whose lives add joy immeasurably to mine.
Marisa P. Clark is a queer writer who grew up on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and came out in Atlanta. Her prose and poetry appear in Shenandoah, Cream City Review, Nimrod, Epiphany, Foglifter, Prairie Fire, Rust + Moth, Sundog Lit, Texas Review, and elsewhere. Best American Essays 2011 recognized her creative nonfiction among its Notable Essays. She lives in New Mexico with three parrots, two dogs, and whatever wildlife and strays chance to visit.
It’s past time to top off my morning joe,
but two house finches, probably a mated pair,
are visiting the nearest feeder, cracking seeds
open in their beaks. A third finch balances
on the Russian sage, stripping purple blooms
for breakfast.
Even with my propped feet
falling asleep on the patio tabletop, coffee
cooling in my mug, and the last cup turning acrid
in the pot, I won’t disturb their meal. A dove lands
on the feeder across the yard and points one wing
skyward like a threatful blade—this display
a military drill, preparation for battle. Is the dove
disappointed no other bird encroaches? Yesterday
a barn swallow divebombed the resident roadrunner
who’d been poking under a bush for a lizard or insect,
some living bit of protein to consume. The chastened
bird rushed away, matching the shape of its cartoon
namesake, as the swallow swooped and strafed.
In this spot of shade the air is cool and finally free
of smeary, stinging smoke from wildfires
far from here.
There’s war enough in the world,
and strife, without my adding to it. I can wait
for the finches to eat their fill and fly together
to an indeterminate elsewhere. I can wait to rise
and test these tingling feet on rough concrete,
to go inside, refill my mug, and return to perch
at this lookout, where I drink in peace: to peace.
The Golden Hour
The terrier dozes in his favorite spot of sun,
on the supple back of the recliner. Its red leather dips
like a lower lip, like a smile hammocking him.
The retriever raises drowsy brown eyes, and when
I pat my thigh, she hurries to my side. Fingers sink
deep in blond fur—that’s all she needs to send her
wagging into bliss. I’ve reached an age where
I’ve begun doing the math, estimating how many
good years I have left, how many future dogs
I’ll have, what kind, what size—or should I say
how few? When I indulge this forward thinking,
guilt comes on. My rough calculations don’t account
for the subtractions of these two lives, much less
grief multiplied. So I pray to cease
all musing that deducts each millisecond from our time.
Let me appreciate this moment—it’s all that’s guaranteed.
Let me relish its gifts of sunlight and two dogs
whose lives add joy immeasurably to mine.
Marisa P. Clark is a queer writer who grew up on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and came out in Atlanta. Her prose and poetry appear in Shenandoah, Cream City Review, Nimrod, Epiphany, Foglifter, Prairie Fire, Rust + Moth, Sundog Lit, Texas Review, and elsewhere. Best American Essays 2011 recognized her creative nonfiction among its Notable Essays. She lives in New Mexico with three parrots, two dogs, and whatever wildlife and strays chance to visit.
