Joy
Abby hates car rides. All buck and thrash,
her gray swayback swells and her limbs
flail like drumsticks when we lift her
("One, two, three!") into the backseat.
Hey, if I'd spent ten years in a cage
same size as my body having babies,
a liquid world whipping by on all sides
would make me puke, too. She stands stiff
as a dead beehive the whole ride, toppling
into turns, crumpling onto her face at stop-
lights. But yesterday, first nice day in months,
you decided to drive all the dogs to the lake.
It's a hoot to watch them chase whiffs of scat.
"Hold Abby on your lap so she can stick her
nose out the window," you said in the car
because you don't believe in coddling things,
especially the frightened if fright's gone.
I held her by the harness in case she spooked,
kissed her on the head, rubbed her ears, gently
felt the last tooth—her sunken muzzle's sharp surprise.
She kept her nose pointed into the wind and
blinked. Her muscles began to melt, she started
slipping, but I propped her back up. At the lake,
the other dogs ran far enough ahead to see
us and be seen, but Abby just stood here,
eyes locked on us—"Don't you move"—
(maybe she was worried about finding her way
home if we dumped her) so she missed
the swirling, sqwonking flock of rosy birds as they
landed fifty feet away. The other dogs froze:
"What the fuh—"
“Those are pelicans!” I yelled,
because someone had recently told me pelicans
migrate through Iowa, and I’d thought,
“You’re a liar. I’ll never see such a thing.”
“Look, Abby!” we said and pointed at the wobbly
weirdos chasing freaked-out geese behind her,
but Abby distrusted our laughter and its source.
Joy was a strange bird she’d never trust
or try to catch.
Copyright Credit: Jennifer L. Knox, "Joy" from Crushing It. Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer L. Knox. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyonpress.org.
Source: Crushing It (Copper Canyon Press, 2020)