(for Lisa)

Where does the anger go when it cannot be expressed?

I thought about writing you a letter,
but really—what good would that do?
No one at this school seems to believe in apologies.

There was the time when you lost my daughter--
left her stranded after a field trip to the high school--
my sweet girl, pink-cheeked, slow at processing,
literal in language.

You expected her to follow
when you said walkers should leave
(and she’s a car rider)
and you did not count heads

as you left the high school and crossed the busy highway.
Her father and I, hearts squeezed to the size of ice cubes,
drove from here to there searching for her.
None of you said we made a mistake; we’re sorry.

Her eighth-grade graduation was just another one--

Picture my daughter before the start
of this June passage. She has on her new Easter dress
and her freshly washed curls shimmer
like the budding of new leaves.

She is standing alone
in the middle of the gym floor,
which is where you told her to go.
She does not comprehend that directions
have changed; she only notices that she is alone,
that other kids are waiting outside the gym doors
like moths dancing on a window screen at night.

You are near the podium, chattering, observing;
she is a splotch of green and pink freshness
in that cavernous space
hesitant, unsure,
the first timid daffodil of spring.

Not one of you strolls over
to tell her to wait outside.
Not one of you can be bothered
to address her bewilderment.
Hundreds of eyes in the bleachers
note her awkward, isolated presence
as you

do nothing. Your school motto is
the kids come first.

Where does the anger go when it cannot be expressed?

It goes into the dark bitterness of coffee,
the soft gentleness of the coffeehouse dog,
and the low chatter of baristas working a crossword.

It goes into the high-lofted church ceiling,
its darkly stained beams of oak breathing be still,
its resonance of organ chords settling, dissipating.

It goes into sweat and into lawn mower,
into newly shorn grass neat and sharply pungent.

It goes into lemon yellow lilies and blood red bee balm,
monarchs resting on orange butterfly weed,
and purple blackberries ripening in July heat.

It goes into the permanent record,
this page imprinted on my readers’ minds,
this picture of my golden-haired girl forever standing alone with no one to help her,
you forever ignoring her and gossiping among yourselves.

And it goes out into the universe,
that dark night sky, moonless,
the stars bright points of distant light.

(for Steve)

A ten-year-old shelter dog,
tall and solid, white and black,
curvy tail, like a cat’s.
They won’t have him long,
we whisper. But they did.
Many years, in suburbia,

this dog, who never
barked, growled, or
bared his teeth,
who let young ones
yank his tail, pat his nose
with hard, flat palms, and stick
bony elbows into his
soft middle,

who never jumped up,
stole a piece of meat,
or wagged his tail
into a lampshade,

slowed down
by the time my brother
moved to a city apartment,
then a smaller city
house, leaving much

behind, but not the
old dog

who by now
needed tending,
carrying upstairs and down,
and sometimes out
to do his business.

The old dog,
who didn’t do much now
but sleep,
struggled to stand up
when you entered the room

(still a dapper old gentleman,
despite wheezing
and coughing--

he surely would have
tipped his hat, had he
had one).

The dog was eighteen,
maybe nineteen,
when the e-mail arrived
announcing his departure:
Today he passed on.
He was a good boy.

The e-mail thanks me
for kindnesses to this dog,
and I want to protest--

but don’t:
let’s not get sentimental
about the dog,
I think.

Instead, I remember
the dog’s slow amble to greet us
as we enter his house;
his wet, pink tongue
as it licks my baby’s hand;
his steady breath and still body,
recumbent on the rug;
and my brother’s large hand
resting lightly on the dog’s head.

And I wonder about clichés:
growing old gracefully,
man’s best friend,
the conquering powers of--

Let’s not get sentimental,
I think again.