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Memorial
Dave Smith
Today on the 17th fairway I stepped over
not quite the length of my arm once,
now more papery shell than any
fish, and yet moccasin still.
The triangular2 head had been halved,
a six-iron maybe, swung without thought.
Twisting tongue gone into this grass
making for the pond maybe,
that was gone too, the way words go
when we open our mouth
and try to remember what we have done.
So little of it all really matters.
Sunlight poured down its free admiration,
a scale here and there gleamed
as if a nerve had been touched again,
to understand more. You know, don't
you, our brains were saying, they will bite
you even when they are dead? But
look how there was an eye, a beauty.
Braided and subtle was what covered
to the side it couldn't see,
turning as the planet does, slow, sure.
Instant by instant it must have
blinked, tasted, filled itself with knowing
it would have to kill some things
to get where the future would be better.
Sometimes it would lie in the grass,
rain falling with its voice of approval,
Until the dark, and then endless sun
its body would hold like a scaled straw.
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