About Dogs

for Delia

I’ve lived with a pack
two days, now. We pause in the back yard, alone.

They’ve asked my name, in their manner.
I’m inclined to tell them.

We ate grass this morning-
the blond-black bitch taking the most.

My aim is to tell them of the grizzly, of my peanut
butter sandwich- fright grass turned in my gut

to tell them of the bear in my step
as I gave a feather, peacock eye,

to Two Medicine, as I
asked the lake to accept small

wood and bone. The dogs keep dropping
the ball at my feet, keep stopping

to snort. They’ve seen hands
full of fingers and bad meat tossed from a man’s

back-yard. They have no patience
for my talk. I remind them I’ve given

a lake gifts to find in myself
the bear, so I might see

wings, blond legs, to split, finally,
wild and domestic, bring my life to town.

The dogs bark and ask my name
again. I tell them nothing, play

the morning out sniffing grass, throwing
the ball. I follow the bitch

in milk weed, in catch. I understand not stories,
names, but this will fill my day.