Robert Bush noon, Sept. 25
- Brandon Cesmat
A poem by Brandon Cesmat
- When the boy’s dog didn’t come
- home from hunting squirrels or rabbits,
- he rode on a brown mare
- in the hills above the ranch,
- singing the name, “Ti-ger! Here boy!” as he looked.
- His parents already knew
- that the ranch foreman had dumped the body in
- a baranca just below the crest.
- So many shadows rose beneath the sycamores,
- the boy never saw his dog lying in the leaves.
- He called until the name became a lament.
- Those two weeks in the hills belong to Tiger.
- Finally, his mother told him not to call anymore,
- but a ghost of that boy is still up there,
- riding the ghost of that mare
- every place that he left his voice.
- No one can touch them.