J. Michael Dew
Eliot
Sweet intrepid, Elly Belly, you
knew but one direction;
neither word nor hiss could dissuade you –
sunrays were your lover –
and with your own soft, white belly billows projecting to the sky
you were faithful to the only thing
that could earn your deference.
We called you “pushy cat” with love,
and we played along when you would
accidentally roll from the windowsill to the flowerbed.
“Don’t even think about it,” we’d say
and laugh when you did,
and we cried when you did.
“It’s thirty-five through here,” Mom said ruefully
when you were found where
your boldness ceased.
***
It was Josh who chipped away the stubborn
dirt; he chose the place near the cliffs
where the old dirt road reaches up to meet the hayfield.
You were lowered as the sun lowered,
but you were tucked in too hastily;
a thin blanket is no deterrent, and
by morning the earth that you were to become
was clawed away – your black plastic shroud torn
and you exposed.
Precious Eliot – impetuous even still
as I cursed your fate and
regarded again your soft, white belly billows
projecting,
provoking,
pushing through the dirt
as if death were just another
scolder to be ignored.
J. Michael Dew teaches at Georgia Perimeter College. He has written two full-length
manuscripts. He has a wife from Venezuela, a 20 month old daughter, and one on the way: a
girl. His philosophy about writing? He writes because he has to. It’s a tick. There are so
many things to celebrate with the written word.
Home
Issue Two
Eliot
Sweet intrepid, Elly Belly, you
knew but one direction;
neither word nor hiss could dissuade you –
sunrays were your lover –
and with your own soft, white belly billows projecting to the sky
you were faithful to the only thing
that could earn your deference.
We called you “pushy cat” with love,
and we played along when you would
accidentally roll from the windowsill to the flowerbed.
“Don’t even think about it,” we’d say
and laugh when you did,
and we cried when you did.
“It’s thirty-five through here,” Mom said ruefully
when you were found where
your boldness ceased.
***
It was Josh who chipped away the stubborn
dirt; he chose the place near the cliffs
where the old dirt road reaches up to meet the hayfield.
You were lowered as the sun lowered,
but you were tucked in too hastily;
a thin blanket is no deterrent, and
by morning the earth that you were to become
was clawed away – your black plastic shroud torn
and you exposed.
Precious Eliot – impetuous even still
as I cursed your fate and
regarded again your soft, white belly billows
projecting,
provoking,
pushing through the dirt
as if death were just another
scolder to be ignored.
J. Michael Dew teaches at Georgia Perimeter College. He has written two full-length
manuscripts. He has a wife from Venezuela, a 20 month old daughter, and one on the way: a
girl. His philosophy about writing? He writes because he has to. It’s a tick. There are so
many things to celebrate with the written word.
Home
Issue Two
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Chickenpinata
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| a journal of poetry issue two |