Taxidermy – a poem of the pandemic

I wrote this poem in 2021, and the time for it to be published has long since passed–there is nowhere to submit it. And to be honest I wasn’t sure it was any good. It’s raw and no organic form emerged while I wrote it, which makes no sense if you don’t write poetry but makes sense if you do, so my apologies.

I found it today and it made me cry, so I decided to put it up here in the hopes that we never forget that sad and strange time, and the losses we carry forward from 2020. I used to be afraid that nothing would change after COVID, that all that loss would result in nothing but loss. Some things did change about how we live. I thank the universe that so much has returned.

Taxidermy

To say my dogs died is one thing but

to say they died during the shutdown,

another. You know what I mean. The losses

pile up, the day to day, lunch with friends,

singing in the car on the way to work,

avoiding eye contact in the elevator,

neighborhood hellos, that awkward dance

in the narrow office kitchen. Who knew

I would miss it all so much?

In the face of deaths haunting

coworkers and friends, pneumonia

and bronchitis and long haul,

disruption and disappearance of

entire industries, do I dare complain

of my losses? My husband lost his job,

and found another. My daughter lost her job,

and found a lover after she moved back home.

Another daughter moved away, taking

her son (of course) (but how dare she).

The other avoids flying, and stays in Brooklyn

with a grandson who knows me via FaceTime.

That is my list, and of course, the dogs.

My dogs. Between the two of them

it was thirty years and less than twenty pounds.

Six pounds of spite, fourteen of duty,

fangs and anger, a symphony of paw licking.

I can tell you exactly how that sounded,

like I can tell you how it sounded when

the one had her seizures. I could tap out

the rhythm of their nails on the floor,

mimic their whines, their barks (a

sharp yap, a strange quack),

trace for you the orange paths of their tears.

I can summon the exact shape

of a blocky head under my hand,

and strange thick ears like a lamb’s,

white brushy fur and a hard, round belly,

silky fur and a bare pink belly

with little black dots where

teats should have been. I know

their warts and snarls, nicknames,

foolish, charming games, favorite toys,

how they settled for sleep between our long bodies,

the swallowed barking of their dreams,

their night kicks and canine snores.

The morning sneeze of the mean one,

to say she meant us no harm.

The smiling, wagging approach of the other,

to remind us about breakfast.

All these details are part of the pain

I hold so carefully, cherishing the ache.

I want to feel this pain. Maybe forever.

For Christmas this year, my daughters

hired a fiber artist to replicate my dogs.

I didn’t know, of course. I opened the box

and burst into tears over a pink tongue

poking slightly out of a mouth,

a fixed and anxious expression that tracked

my every move, every moment of every day.

They are perfect. Too perfect.

How could I tell my daughters

I couldn’t bear them? I hid them for weeks.

But now, they sit before me, Memento Mori,

the daily pain that reminds me

of what I have loved and lost,

four dark eyes that watch me move

through this strange and empty world

where so much is peeled away.