The minute we finished reading your poems they started,
at first a few yaps from distant woods,
then howls that rolled across the meadow
and moved with coyotes across moonlight.
You should have been here,
except of course you’re dead,
not deceased, departed, gone to heaven— dead.
You thought all animals should be wild,
we’d argue about that
and so many things
in between revising poems,
while my cats brushed against your legs.
The coyotes howled again as the moon rose,
they must have been running in a pack;
we couldn’t have planned a better memorial
for you who put so many animals in your poems,
heron, alligator, osprey,
but you’re not here to write this one,
and how I miss arguing about words with you.
Take my words,
take every line break, stanza and dash,
take a glass of red wine,
like we’d drink between poems,
take my poem,
take moonlight and coyotes’ howls,
take off into meadow and forest
and run wild tonight.
George Longenecker’s work has been published in Atlanta Review; Comstock Review; Main Street Rag; Plates; Saranac Review; War, Literature & the Arts; and Whale Road Review. In 2017 he participated in Tupelo Press’s 30/30 project, writing a poem a day for 30 days. His book Star Route was recently released by Main Street Rag Publishing.