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Featured SelectionsAubade with Calf
Why I Respect the Dog
Listen to Poems from Our July Issue
Our July issue features two captivating—and very different—poems about animals. One is a gorgeous, ruminative piece by Megan J. Arlett, “Aubade with Calf,” that makes me feel as grounded as a stone in a stream. The other, Catherine Pierce’s “Why I Respect the Dog,” is a loving ode to a headstrong pet who can teach us all a lesson about taking charge of our lives. You can listen to the authors read their poems by clicking the play buttons below.
Take care and listen well,
Nancy Holochwost, Associate Editor
Aubade with Calf
By Megan J. Arlett
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Click the play button below to listen to Megan J. Arlett read
“Aubade with Calf.”
So early the mist remains hammocked between hills. My hand palms a calf’s muzzle. We are two beings drawn together by instinct. By this definition, I have found the one. There should be an epiphany, but I’m shin-deep in brambles, mucus running from both our noses. To what extent does he understand purpose. To what extent was I made without. There’s nothing soft here except the tuft between his fathomless eyes, his ears flickering at phantoms.
Why I Respect the Dog
By Catherine Pierce
► Play audio
Click the play button below to listen to Catherine Pierce read
“Why I Respect the Dog.”
The dog weighs twelve pounds and uses them as she pleases. The king-size bed is not big enough. Sleep enabler, stretch-monger, when she wants to be touched, she offers up the narrow white arc of her belly. When a loud face crowds her, she growls. Or, depending on the weather, the time, the face, she doesn’t. The dog knows the precise creak of the cheese drawer and waits. She is never wrong. The dog does not care for rain. The dog does not fret about the carpets. The dog is on the table again, and the sandwich crusts are gone, the cereal milk is gone, the cracker crumbs are gone. She knows “down” but will not heed it. Sometimes at night I leave her sleeping on the couch, her eyes flickering with dreams. From bed I hear her nails clicking down the hall, fast, faster. She noses open the door and launches herself against me, her twelve pounds, her punk-black fur. She wants to be close, right now, it is urgent, and then, simple as that, she is.
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