Sadie by Jesse Fourmy

I fished you to my side of Bob's pond
with a piece of pipe I found on the bank
you stumbled down, ratting by moonlight.

Your ears once perked when I'd truck past
your favorite, cool spot on the driveway—
your bristles fanned the water as I tugged you

towards me, tenderly. I pulled you out
by your short hindquarters, noticing the lightness of you
and imagined your body wired, pulleyed from a beam.

I know that seems strange but, Sadie,
I carried you to the Shoemaker's lawn
and buried you beneath their coconut palm

while my wife phoned your vacationing people.
Raining. October. Burying a dog by hand,
we healed a grave I'd unearthed between us.

We sighed when that storm cloud lifted. Leaned
our shovels along the wall of the Big Island Ginger
warehouse that Gene Hennen mortared some summers ago.

About the author:
Jesse S. Fourmy was born in Berkeley, CA in 1972. He is a writer, surfer and father of four. He lives on the Big Island with his wife and kids.