Seeing Bass

A house stands empty.
A bed is cold.
A bone rests in a corner.

Food bowls languish
In a hall.
Bags of kibble stand silent.

Leather leash, yellow collar,
Sag from a hook
By the door.

Can it be, beloved Bass,
That you’re not here
Anymore?

It can’t be true,
I know it’s not,
Because I see you. There—

A big old dog,
Front paws dancing,
Barks for his dinner at four.

A brown form curls
On the worn old bed
Next to the desk by the door.

The shapes are faint,
The sounds far off.
But surely it is you.

I turn to look
And then you’re gone
And my heart breaks anew.

When You Don’t Have Children

When you don’t have children,
The soil becomes your womb.
Coax enough life from it, feed enough life on it,
And you might count for something.
You might amount to something.

I have no children.
I have sheep and goats;
Cats and dogs;
Chickens and eggs.
So many eggs.

I grow vegetables—
Squashes like uteri;
Pumpkins to cradle;
Bean pods and seeds.
So many seeds.

There’s an equation out there.
The O on one side—an X on the other.
How many must I have on the X side,
To make up for the O?

I try some math:
Add two hens and a goat?
Plant more peas, more potatoes?
How will I know
When the number is right?