8
Raining again, puddles pock
the saturated yard.
I search for tools -- hammer, nails,
a saw -- to begin the ark.
The dog follows my every move.
She wants to be sure
she is one of the selected. Once,
my brother and I dammed
a schoolyard creek -- sticks, rocks,
mud. Serious as sin,
we shouted at every break
and scurried to patch weak spots.
We worked beyond the reach
of Mother's call. Last night,
the dog had a seizure.
In the family room dark,
I held her where she had fallen,
unable to stand, eyes rolled back,
a puddle on the hardwood floor.
I held her like a lover,
a child, a brother gone
ten years, until the shaking
stopped and she grew still
as sleep. The only sound
the ragged breath of rain.
Grand Mal
Jim Zola