HUNTING DOGS

LILLIAN SICKLER

 
 

when the old dog broke
her leg,
she laid in her place
beside the shed, sniffing
the cancer
 
that same violet hour, my mother
got stoned with Benji
for the first time
in 44 years.
she leaned her head
on his shoulder
conversed with the ages
seventeen and twenty
 
it’s late
spring,
 
greyhounds sprint across the country
 
flashes on the wall
in your bedroom
late at night. like someone
is outside
taking bites out
of lightning. streaks
of it panting through
your blinds
like liquid yoke
dribbling out
of an egg
 
you were miles away
 
when the dogs dragged me
through the mud.
shook my limp torso,
 
all the sweetness comes
out
of me

 
 

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