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Poem

When I get to the Redwoods,
I’ll look for her clapboard home
above a sea-lion rookery.
I will seek out
her twelve-year-old Ford truck,
her briny patch of hand-reared garden,
her small surf-riding boat.

She’s native,
she taught me a Klamath-Modoc hunting prayer:

“I want you to know,
that a hungry man has killed you.
We will meet once more,
for you are my brother.”

I knew her by her seasoning.
The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.’
Maybe she went off
with that s.o.b. jailbird
who twice tried to kill her.

I’ll take the back roads, getting lost
until I reach the ocean.

When I get to Crescent City,
I will sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions;
savoring their deep throated funk.
I will maybe say a hunting prayer;
a self-hunting prayer.

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