I've mentioned the new puppy before
so it won't come as a surprise
that I'm reading a book about how dogs think.
I want to know how the flea collar feels
around his thickening neck, next to the skull
and crossbones collar, and why he tucks
his tail under when he sleeps,
and if when he is, for a few hours, in the crate,
which seems cozy enough, he devises
a plan to pay me back for this captivity.
I want to understand his relentless
drive to be where I am, to trod down the hall
and back again with his heavy paws
("That is going to be a big dog," everyone says)
even into the bathroom, which I typically
prefer to be private.

He won't go out in the rain unless
I'm standing out there too, both of us soaked
to the bone. He won't sleep without one eye
on me if I move from the space beside him.
Why would this animal
devote himself to me so utterly, I who
really can't be trusted not to throw shoes
or swat a nose when his love bites bite
too hard.  I who throw a fit about the ***
just inside the door, I who deny him access
to the cat.  I who write poems
about his private life and study him like a ******,
while he goes on sleeping.

"What's going on," my love said to the puppy
and me. "Everybody's up at 5 a.m.?
In the dark, we all went out to the backyard
where crickets hummed and the pool lay waiting,
and the damp grass welcomed our bare feet.
Every new day, every morning cup of steaming
coffee, every couch cuddle convinces me that a happy
life begins with a renewed sense of wonder at how darkness
shapes and frames the rising sun of love.

I come again to the task of grading their final papers.
My eye looks for errors and is surprised to find
the occasional really nice observation, the jewel
in what is otherwise such a disappointing read.
This is how I know I have lost touch with what it means
to be a teacher.  Instead, I have become a judge,
with my critical thoughts, my evaluation of each case,
each miserable attempt to satisfy the terms
of the assignment.

In fact, a student's observation about the drowning
of Ophelia as it compares to the speaker
in Adrienne Rich's "Diving into the Wreck"
is exactly the kind of thinking I advised,
but I find it weak.  Of course I do,
here with my metaphorical red pen,
now a mouse and pointer, highlighting
all of the absurd grammar and punctuation
mistakes, the lack of support for points.
"Where's the evidence for this claim?" I write.

Where's the evidence, at the end of the semester,
here in my room, figuring out what grade
is appropriate, that I did everything I could
to make the literature come alive for students
who are floundering like Ophelia in the water,
their heavy mental garments weighing them down,
trapping them until they know they are drowning
and I stand by the water describing how messy
their hair is.

I said to a student this morning,
in a voice of authority,
and immediately thought of a statue
of some towering figure
who ruled with an iron fist and sharp
tongue --- the least of his (or her) weapons
against humanity.

I won't tell you again means
I just told you
How many times to do I have to tell
you
You're not listening
you are stubborn and insolent,
I am wronged.
What you have done is egregious,
but what is worse is that you can't
spell egregious or pronounce
it or appreciate its meaning
in a sentence.

What are you doing here, anyway,
confounding me, interrupting my plan
for how things are going to be?
When I say quiet, I mean quiet,
shut the door, sit down, pay attention.
Pay attention.  Pay attention
to me.  Build a mental statue
in my honor, kneel there. How
can you learn if you are talking
instead of hearing me the first time
I said I won't tell you again.

Outside the traffic hums.  
You will get in your car later
and drive home to where,
hopefully, there are a few kids
just waiting to get on your nerves
so that you eventually scream
I won't tell you again!

In the dark you may cry
because of someone's insensitivity,
someone's impatience toward
you, because you are in trouble
but you won't tell anyone
and you sure as hell won't
tell me because
I won't tell you again.

Last week, among friends black and white,
among some discussion of protests in Ferguson
and the related looting of stores, I invoked
the word.  It was an admission, in a round
of confessions, of something about myself
that I didn't like:  that I had perceived Michael Brown
in that way based on his possible participation
in a strong-armed robbery.  

When Travon Martin was in the news,
I was inflamed like many others who wanted
George Zimmerman in jail for ******.
The outcome of that trial was an injustice,
I was utterly certain.  Why does this case
in Missouri feel different?  More importantly,
Who is inside me that still wants to rise
in defiance of 48 years of learning how
to be a better person, a person without prejudices,
stereotyping, labeling of others, hurtful language?

Where is the hippie girl now?  How does she live
with this other person?  Am I Sterling, Gibson,
a hater and spewer of viciousness, a lover
of separation and separateness, that I should
invite damage to my own relationships
with those I love and cherish and respect?

What is a **** but a bully, and what is a bully
but someone who pushes words around like
weapons, spits them out indiscriminately,
so that they land on the already bruised heart
and set it on fire.

Whose heart, besides mine, now sits in smoke
and ash, with that word like a brand
still sore and permanent, having been spoken
aloud?

On Friday,
I found out that I have only gained
four pounds since the last time
I went to the weight loss center,
which was last year.
I have celebrated for four days.
I am all smiles and renewed energy,
going out for long walks
and doing yoga
at 5 a.m.,
eating healthy foods, taking my vitamins
again.
I wonder what this says
about my self-esteem
and my perspective on what really matters.
It's a measurement. Just four pounds,
apparently, is what happiness weighs.

and on the top of everything
were seven beautiful clown's nose
strawberries.. bold, bright, old glory
red, with dozens of freckles
and a taste that can only be compared
to summer days with you at our house,
fresh, satisfying, good for me
in every way, juicy-ripe.
Bite into a strawberry,
and what you find inside
is a heart.  Go look.
What you find inside
is a heart that was just waiting
for you to set it free.