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YOUR DOG
DIES
it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on. |
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Review:
Fires: Essays, Poems, Stories
As spare as they are, most of Carver's short stories strike me as a bit
long-winded. Not so his poetry, which treat his usual themes--alcoholism,
working-class poverty, and rocky relationships--with greater wit and vigor
than his prose. The essays will be of interest to would-be writers
and Carver biographers, but what makes this book outstanding is the 60 pages
of poetry which comprise its heart. |
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* This poem is reprinted for educational purposes * |
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