Asked, I Cannot Tell You What He Feels
I can only say how they begin and end–
an arresting cry then a startled look
as vocal chords contract seconds before
his hand flies skyward and legs give way.
Shorty, part Aussie herder, beats me to him;
attacks his pant leg, the perceived intruder
until, freeing a hand, I can shoo her away.
Lumpy, sweet feline familiar, hangs in,
rides them out near his feet alternating
between wide-eyed and yawning.
Within a minute he blues about the mouth,
shakes violently and goes rigid; then comes
the grinding, blood and saliva, the soiling
and it’s over.
He will remember nothing;
may or may not ask why his jeans are wet,
his left eye bruised and tongue is sore.
Gloves are advised but I never use them
convinced that touch can be curative.
by Patricia Wallace Jones, first published in Wordgathering.
Editor’s Note: This heart wrenching poem speaks to the caregiver in all of us. Love pushes us into difficult wildernesses.