Chronicle

Chronicle

I slapped a shoeprint on the whitewashed cinderblock wall behind our garage
I read a poem that talked about dog excrement drying
“into white stones that sift into lawns or wash down gutters” (lines from a poem by B. Brown)
I’ve seen my own dog’s excrement do the same—
Dry into white stones but melt into the lawn out back when the rains came
My own, my very own memories stop and start with every tick-tocking
Of my battery-operated travel alarm clock which used to wake me up every morning
Until my daughter took it away one day and kept it for good to use for herself
A cheap heirloom now, I suppose
Funny how almost desperate I don’t know if I’ve gained or lost
It’s my secret I don’t share, and each thought about that one
instant with my brother makes the images clearer
It’s with each drop of rain in early fall
the six tiny legs of every invading ant that scurries across my cement basement floor
thunderous pat, pat-pat, down, down, sinking hurriedly seeking
I watched across a hundred, maybe five or even six hundred, acres of corn and soybean
Partitioned with barbed wire, gravel roads and trees that grew horse apples
All said something about the memory of that one time
The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, Speed Racer and Star Blazers, The Mighty Thor
Captain America, Iron Man and Spiderman, Wonder Woman and Green Lantern
Tyco racing cars doing loop-de-loops
What I grew up with, what I put together as frames of reference to the time
I remember the wasps’ nests, the cheese and mayo sandwiches—they were so good
Then, the “dog excrement” brought it all back, in a crash of unrelenting stinging regret
But I too was young when it happened, as if that might serve as a good enough excuse now
It was the time I caught my brother choking our new puppy
The two of them locked in a cruel molestation episode—a criminal act in violation of ASPCA rules of humane treatment of domestic animals, I’m sure
I suppose I should forgive, I suppose
But I couldn’t
I took hold of him in an instant, and showed him what,
Made him feel how the pup felt
He gasped, eyes popping out of his face
Made him feel firsthand the horror, eye for an eye
Meting out justice but it didn’t make me feel right
Told him I was sorry the next day as we walked to the bus stop
He’d already confessed what he did was wrong the night before
Said he’d never thought about how pups, or any other animal he’d tortured,
Might feel getting strangled


J.H. Lee, ‘07