Deep Lane

 [June 23rd, evening of the first fireflies]Mark Doty1953 –June 23rd, evening of the first fireflies,we’re walking in the cemetery down the road,and I look up from my distracted study of whatever,an unfocused gaze somewhere a few feet in front of my shoes,and see that Ned has run on aheadwith the champagne plume of his tail held especially high,his head erect,which is often a sign that he has something he believes he is not allowed to have,and in the gathering twilight (what is it that is gathered,who is doing the harvesting?) I can make out that the long horizontalbetween his lovely jaws is one of the four stakes planted on the slopeto indicate where the backhoe will dig a new grave.Of course my impulse is to run after him, to replace the marker,out of respect for the rule that we won’t desecrate the tombs,or at least for those who knew the womanwhose name inks a placard in the rectangle claimed by the four polesof vanishing—three poles now—and how it’s within their recollection,their gathering, she’ll live. Evening of memory. Sparklamps in the grass.I stand and watch him go in his wild figure eights,I say, You run, darling, you tear up that hill.Copyright © by Mark Doty. Used with the permission of the author.