Wednesday Poetry: Practicing

No one can expect anything from me.

Practicing

by Marie Howe

Today I’m going to practice being dead for a few hours.

No one can expect anything from me.

No emails. No groceries.

Our little dog Jack watches me walk

from room to room, but,

for a few hours, he is the only one who can,

and he returns contentedly to his bone.

I say bone—it’s what the pet store calls

a bully stick, which is in fact a bull’s penis—

dried out and hard.

That a small dog should chew on a bull’s penis!

Well, we eat swordfish, don’t we?

And the shy octopus whose brains

are in her arms?

The sunlight enters the small kitchen

spilling across the white enamel table

and the chipped blue wooden chair

whether anyone is there to see it, or not.

Meister Eckhart says, There never was a man who forsook himself so much

that he could not still find more in himself to forsake.

Nevertheless, it’s good to have a dog with you when you are practicing

not being there: you don’t feel so all alone.