Cellar

On a winter afternoon, I went down to the cellar
To put away my work boots, and the old dreadnaught

with the faux ivory inlay on the fretboard. There
was a pain in my shoulder— I don’t remember

which one—that felt as if it had been there
for a hundred and fifty years. In the cupboard

under the stairs were shelves of cherries and onions
in jars, and half-full bottles of whiskey

from distilleries shuttered during Prohibition.

At least that’s how I heard the spiders tell it,
descending invisible threads

from my grandfather’s broken fishing rod.

Dogs Of The Quarantined

We just quit barking, perplexed
By the unusual silence of our masters.
The newspapers that once swatted

Our noses, now lay unfolded
Beneath our water bowls. For once
They don’t hurry us to go. They

No longer look at the sky. We
Have to wonder if we are still
Their loyal sidekicks, or just someone

To lead them back home
After another of these aimless
Walks. The courage of our wolf

Forbearers starts to rise
In our throats, and all at once
We smell the snow

As if for the first time.

Dead Reckoning

I was led down a long corridor
passing doors marked, “Authorized
Personnel Only.” It grew darker
with every step. It was the first day

of my hunger strike, and I wanted
to get back as soon as possible.
By the time the passageway went
completely dark, I couldn’t remember

where we’d started—a prison graveyard?
A city square with shuttered windows?
Perhaps a muddy backyard in a country
village where a dog chained to a stake

shivered in fear as the widow hung
her husband’s shirts on a clothesline.