Yogini’s Departure
The terrier/coonhound DNA emerged today
full force. I had very little say in the matter.
The song sparrow hopped freely as if grateful
that it lived, after hitting the great glass door.
Lucy seized the moment to grab what she thought
was dinner. Drop it! I screeched, a voice
I’d never use again. The deed was done. Soft brown
speckled feathers quivered as I made eye contact
and spoke to its fleeting soul. Who knew the rope
around my friend’s neck would tackle her
under mottled light for just a minute,
crystal necklace and the glint in the sunlight
in woods behind Butterfly Lane? A man who found her
called the simple numbers 9 1 1. Her husband
on his way to Santa Cruz to tell their daughter,
his swollen eyes he wished were someone else’s.
Her Warrior Stance and Sun Salutation tumbled
down a tunnel of darkness with her laughter
that knew something we do not. Into the light,
the forest disappeared, smaller and smaller
till all that was left was her limber body’s impression
on leaves just fallen after a full Moon. The others
were all there to greet her, dogs, relatives, my sister.
My chest hurts to write, and I’m listening to Cuban music
to drown out the black dust of death. Juncos
and doves cry their songs to us as a reminder of lips,
arms, whole bodies making something
in each shadowy and lyrical day.
- © Kat Crawford 2023
Kat Crawford is a San Francisco writer.
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