[Newspoetry] Death of God

[DL Emerick]

Death is the hardest thing
that life has to offer us;
I lost four of my closest
in the space of one year.
My favorite Aunt Ruby,
my dearest brother Cliff,
Derrida the finest philospher,
and my little dog Sparky.

My psychiatrist said to me,
oh, it is Sparky's death
you mourn more than all else,
because of each of the others
you have memories shared,
memories of speaking to them,
of what they said and did,
of how they laughed and cried,
but of your dog it was all you,
your love for a pet was you,
you creatd an idol at distance,
one who could never talk,
never respond truly to you,
like a god of the pagans.

It's true, Sparky was a god,
because he never spoke,
never did anything useful,
never judged me, just loved me,
just waited on my offerings,
and followed me everywhere,
was always there, always loyal,
always willing to lick me,
to let me hold him tight.

I do not mean to dishonor
Ruby or Cliff or Derrida,
each of them dear to me,
but Sparky was ethereal;
I weep most at his death,
the death of a beloved god.