BIO
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Kim Dower’s first collection of poetry, Air Kissing on Mars, (Red Hen Press, 2010) was on the Poetry Foundation’s Contemporary Best Sellers list, and was described by the Los Angeles Times as, “sensual and evocative . . . seamlessly combining humor and heartache.” Slice of Moon, her second collection, (Red Hen Press, 2013), was called, “unexpected and sublime,” by “O” magazine. Kim’s work has appeared in Garrison Keillor’s, “The Writer’s Almanac,” and Ted Kooser’s, “American Life in Poetry,” as well as in Ploughshares, Barrow Street, and Eclipse. Kim teaches a workshop called, Poetry and Dreaming in the B.A. Program of Antioch University. Originally from New York City, Kim now lives in West Hollywood, California. www.kimdowerpoetry.com
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A Fly with One Wing is Watching Me
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I remember this fly from long ago
when it had two wings. I was living
in Boston, tried to kill it so many hot
summer nights, terrorized me as I
tried to sleep, circling the chaos
in my head, knew him so well
I called him Jack, tried to make it
a fun thing, this fly intent on ruining
my life. Now he’s in L.A., languishing
on the soft chair across the room,
watching me work. I can see he’s less
a fly since he’s lost a wing, and I want
to know his anguish. Come here little fly,
I gently call to him, but flies are so
nervous they think we’re all trying
to kill them so they don’t wait to hear
what we have to say. I approach him
slowly, put my finger out, invite him
to hop on but he doesn’t move. Maybe
his one wing is too tired to lift, so I sit
next to him, remind him of his glory
days back when he could torment me
how much fun it must have been for him.
He doesn’t move. I consider flicking him
across the room or smashing him
right there, but why? It’s clear he came by
to see me, find out how I’m doing,
acknowledge the past when his buzz
was his life and he couldn’t resist
being the best fly he could be.
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My Guardian
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Lolita, Karen’s black and white spotted dog
slept in bed with me last night.
I’m a houseguest,
and Lolita, Lola for short, jumped high onto the bed
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where she’s never allowed to be, covering the quilt,
that covered me in the dark Portland room.
I opened my eyes, there she was, her nose pointed
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at mine and half awake I thought I was a dog, too,
part of her pack, her daughter or sister from another litter.
I hunched into a ball
so we could be the same shape, together
.
in our den, was honored that Lola chose to sleep next to me.
Karen’s other dogs, gorgeous Great Pyrenees, not herders
but guardians, were holed-up with Karen, while Lola, a mutt,
was looking out for me
.
as cool fall breezes shimmied
through the cracks of the window, leaves on the trees
turned orange through the night, as a trail of dusty
.
clouds obscured the traveling moon, we slept
our dreams spilling over
into the other
.
Lola entered a long room, humans dressed
in evening clothes, their tall backs against the wall, offering
her pearls and steak, while I was locked
.
inside a crate,
my paw stuck in the black wires, my tongue hanging out, hoping
for the sort of kindness an animal may find
only once in her life.
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