Punxsutawney
crawls with groundhogs: both fat
and skinny ones; some stand smiling,
others sit expressionless. Almost all
were never real. Some are dressed
in Scottish kilts, with bagpipes to blow.
Some wear top hats while others carry
American flags or play banjos. Some
grace town murals, others are souvenirs
car-carried far away. See, here in Punxsy,
we make national headlines once a year
for Groundhog’s Day…cause of Phil
…the critter who predicts winter’s end
when emerging from his hole. Our lone
non-groundhog sculpture, wood carved,
is a moccasin-wearing native standing
in front of the police station. No surprise
he’s got a peace pipe, spear, and quiver
slung over his back as well. Nameless,
of unidentified tribe, a sign to his left
reads: “Punxsutawney – Name of Indian
Origin—Founded 1818.” That’s law
and order now, but I wonder if it’s better
just to sculpt another groundhog: Phil
and his family haven’t yet been railroaded
or forgotten. And they’re not all that bad
in the grand scheme of things really, just
tubby, little creatures like me. Harmless.
So I say to myself: be thankful we’re not
the town of squid or sole. Or scat. Thank
great God and country we’re not the town
of Mick Jagger, proctology, or my ex-wife.
.
Corpus
While I’m exploring old cemeteries in Richmond,
Dad’s back home in hospital, his aged body
fighting pancreatitis, intestinal blockage, infections,
and a racing heart. Something’s wrong
with his liver too, and in the wet, drizzling Virginia
gray I’m reminded by the whistle of a distant
train, its urgent sound a pig dying, or a regiment
desperately calling for reinforcements.
When it’s done and silence floats back to tombstones,
we keep a cast heavier than this history
of battles, ideas, ideals, of what men might be: all
underground now, graves piddling on the soil,
our little lost markers of stories asleep and languishing,
secrets parents forgot and untold. To believe
in what existed, or that we might rise: in the misty rain,
far away on hillsides, in a shifting blur, a sound
comes and something tries to appear, show itself: to walk
with the living, in the few days before we’re dead.
© Timothy Dodd
Timothy Dodd is from Mink Shoals, WV, and is the author of Fissures, and Other Stories (Bottom Dog Press). His poetry has appeared in The Literary Review, Crab Creek Review, Roanoke Review, and elsewhere. Also a visual artist, Tim’s most recent solo exhibition, Come Here, Nervousness, was held at Art Underground in Manila, Philippines. His oil paintings can be sampled on his Instagram page, @timothybdoddartwork, and his writing on his “Timothy Dodd, Writer” Facebook page.
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