by D. Foy
If you find a dog
cowering among the star thistle
and vetch of some dusty August
road, and if you bring that dog
home with no intention
of keeping him, chances are
those ribs you had hoped would thaw
out in the backyard sun
before the coals got hot
will be gone. And do not feel
surprise, either, when three days
later your wife calls you
from the porch to nod toward
a skunk’s severed head,
its eyes and hair and little yellow
fangs still intact, quiet
beneath a steady play of flies.
And when at last you see
yourself two days thence again,
crouched beneath a midday plum,
surrounded by plums and flies
and that dog shot dead by a neighbor’s
steady hand, what, if anything, will there be
to say? The dog star has risen,
the dog star has its ways.