I Try Not to Think
Walking along the Squannacook River,
the dog eager, herding us
while the river, also eager, explores rocks
and stones, the sun stretched over the water
as a little white flower among the moss
stretches its thin stem
and I don’t think of the old man
fleeing from his country, his arms
enfolding his tiny wet cat,
the street black with smoke
and the uniformed young
with bully clubs and guns
and I don’t think of that guy in Maine,
his poodle in a leash that pulled its neck
whenever the guy jerked it up,
just walking with his family, jerking that leash up,
that neck up, neck up
while the dog quietly walked beside him
and now we arrive to where the path turns back
and I don’t think that this is where that teenage boy
drowned while swimming across the too-fast water
and I try not to think that death is everywhere,
while walking the dog with my eighteen year old son
who is ready for the world to last and last
Carol Berg’s poems are forthcoming or in Crab Creek Review (Poetry Finalist 2017), DMQ Review, Sou’wester, Radar Poetry, and Zone 3. She lives in Groton, Massachusetts.
