Summer

The host's girlfriend is barely seen.

She's busy giving away

wild animals to reluctant guests.

I agree to take a snake-dog,

maybe an electric eel, but when

I feel its sharp teeth in my shoulder,

I start to worry about

the future welfare of our fragile cat,

the precarious order of our rented home,

and remember

I am supposed to be looking for someone....

A half-wolf, half-elephant

cracks through the walls

of the peeling wallpapered bedroom

where my former student

in a fuschia robe and curlers sits

by a lighted make-up mirror.

The shadows off elongated fake eyelashes are as dark

as the branches of an evening tree.

The hovering body of a fiery sparrow is almost

transparent,

like flute music or an idea.

I turn my back

and finally, I spot her

my friend, the host.

She's sipping rum punch from a martini glass;

her whole body appears to be smiling, glowing,

and I don't know what to think.

I know she doesn't drink, hasn't in decades,

and I wonder what's suddenly changed, but

then I remember

the cancer won,

my friend isn't actually

here, there is no party,

there was never a house.

Source: The Year of Yellow Butterflies (Hanging Loose Press, 2015)