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2003-02-15
Dolly
B.
7.5.96 Edinburgh / D. 2.14.03 Edinburgh
Lung Infection / Euthanasia
Six years old when she should have lived twelve.
Dolly's like Franz
Schubert; she's like Emily Brontė or Rimbaud's muse,
prematurely
snatched.
An empty pen where "her" body
chops and all
last
bleated and swooned
reminds me: I didn't go to
Manhattan for the protest rally today.
Sat home when I should have
been chilling my blood
within me or spilled
on a cordoned sidewalk
while mounted police circled and reared.
I listened to Don Giovanni
live from the Met (as I could have done at the barricades on the
transistor radio I've bought just in case; and I regretted missing that
second bird during the overture)
"my" choice
my genes in an ancient
aspic of opera and steam heat and cats
keeping.