To Stravinsky, a poem in memory of my guide dog Igor

November 13 is the birthday of Igor, my last guide dog. It is a day to celebrate his short life as well as the diligent and loving lives of guide dogs everywhere. Please consider a donation to the fund I set up at the Animal Medical Center in honor of him and my first guide dog, Millennium.

This week Stravinsky, Igor's plant spirit, found himself front and center in the Godin's World Fair, amongst colored lights and origami braille cranes.

To Stravinsky

I write to you, Stravinsky,

Because he, for whom you are named,

Is nowhere to be found.

You sit on my desk next to keepsakes

From his short life

And are easy to take care of,

Therefore easy to love.

 

Let me tell you how you came to occupy

This tiny exalted place…

 

Three days after I lost him

I cleaned mindlessly,

Brought out the vacuum and went to work.

Being blind helps forgetfulness:

Out of sight out of

 

BAM CLATTER

 

I hit the aluminum dog bowls

And probably shrieked.

I picked up the two bowls

As if they might bite or squirm

And dropped them into recycling.

Then I went and cried in human arms.

 

In those arms,

Deep within my sobs,

I conceived a ritual from nowhere,

A rite of spring.

 

I want to go buy a plant tonight,

I will name it Stravinsky,

Spirit of Igor.

 

I picked out and washed the water bowl,

Set it on my desk,

Another empty vessel.

 

At the florist I asked for a plant

That was easy to take care of.

The woman named one

And I asked if it was viney.

She said No,

That one stood straight up like a tree,

A popular plant,

Recommended by some celebrity doctor

For its air purification properties.

 

I was not interested in pure air.

I wanted prehistoric leafy tendrils

Of encroaching flourishing

With minimal fuss.

 

Like all dark relationships,

Ours, Stravinsky, is complicated.

 

I might have hated plant life

Since green grass tempted him

And led him to swallow the neon vine

 

That stuck in his stomach

That led to the surgery

That sliced the tiny incision

That led to the microscopic sepsis

That led to the systemic failure

That led to the pneumonia

That gave final cause for his

Being nowhere to be found.

 

But I do not believe in fate

Or in the culpability of nature

Any more than I believe you to be

A fit substitute receptacle

For my I love yous.

 

Even so,

I love you Stravinsky.

In his bowl I keep you

Healthy and happy.

It is easy to water

You every ten days,

Gratifying to have your reachy growth

On this simple expanse of desk.

Still, if you do not outlive me,

I doubt I will cry at all.

*This poem was first published at Quail Bell Magazine*

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