we rest more
often. His eyes clouded
with cataracts,
hearing dulled
so he startles
sometimes. His hips sway
with ache, but he
whiffles his way
through a scent rich world.
Walks are shorter, slower
and even I see
more–the caterpillar’s
circuitous journeys,
the pinon cones
opening like fists
dropping their treasure.
We pause
to look or sniff.
Then head home,
the sun behind us
like the span of his years
and our shadows
thinning to fade,
lengthening
toward the end
of the day.
—
Lisa D. Chavez has published two books of poetry, Destruction Bay and In An Angry Season. Her essays have appeared in Arts and Letters, The Fourth Genre and other magazines, and in anthologies including The Other Latin@: Writing Against a Singular Identity, and An Angle of Vision: Women Writers on their Poor and Working Class Roots. She grew up in Alaska and currently lives in New Mexico, and has a keen interest in Japanese dogs and in perfume. Find her online at lisadchavez.com
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