after the dogs

 

after the dogs

There are days I'm naïve

enough to say it began with dogs

when they one after 

another were stolen

into the woods and given over

to holes and stones and their own

blood cooling.  It's foolish enough

of me I know and mostly

those days come on

when it's cold and I'm trying

to rub enough heat

into my cheeks that would 

long lost kin embrace 

my chattering 

teeth.  It's then I remember the limp

chains, the scatter of loose fur 

I'd pulled out when I came home

from school the day

before how it was caught

in the tall dead grass and the only thing

left of him or her

aside from the scat-

ter of shit and bare hard earth

was tipped water bowl gone

dry.