What My Father Killed, I Made Meat
had a mouth so soft, the birds
would always need wringing.
I went swimming with this dog, gave it
the fleshy part of my arm. What I remember
is the dog, breathing like an ox;
the shoulders of the dog, dipping like diesel cams;
the eye of the dog,
wild like a bird
before the snap.
Copyright John D Porter © 1998
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