The Sick Dog

Abstract

The Sick Dog Jennifer Key (bio) Sweet pagan heart, Diana of the hunt,we keep you tethered close to us, slow offoot, mortal, earthbound, golden girl who once,a copper bolt, plucked a duck from the blue sailcloth of sky to feel that emerald throatpulsing within your own; at whose approachtall grasses part, where in summer fields sleekcreatures lived and died according to your quicker unblinking eye, though the bright bloodon your tongue these days is oftener your ownas you erase the trace of everywhereyou've been and bled throughout the house, such dull quarry for a dog like you. Shaved and stitchedwhere sunlight once fastened to your fur,a sticky burr not even night pulled clean—your coat of flame the chattering class of birds embroiders into nests, entwining furas if the world were able to rescindeach hard-fought loss and make good use of us,as if whatever's lost could be retrieved again. It can't. Listen, if we are savedat all it will only be by bird beakand black wing, wren and starling, junk birds thatscavenge the yards at dawn while you watch on [End Page 265] in silence and suffer us our scienceas well as our mild God, in whom you can'tbelieve as you already know how thiswill end. Futile the blessing of the priest's pale hands upon your muzzle when a bonewould be better and more honest at leastfor such a wise, all-knowing augurerof wind and architect of lesser fates we do not mourn: ruffed grouse or groundhog's neckin that unholy vise of your grey jaw—so it comes to all, if not violent thenviolated. Rolled over, your stomach's a map of cancer, cutting, and metastasis.Where you rest a dark stain seeps. High priestessof brindled woods, where late you read the runesof horn and hoof, leaf-litter and twig-snap, where shadows spill, black hieroglyphics writtenby the trees that you alone were born to translate:love and grief, two sides of the same green leaf.Here, lace your step through rushes where geese roost, past oak roots knuckled deep into the banksof silver lakes returning now to usas mirrors of their own making. At dusk,the little lights that lick across the lake come on whether we're here or not. For nowwe are. Be glad. Travel until the daypulls in her sail, sails on. Beautiful girl,wherever you're going, 'm going there too. [End Page 266] Jennifer Key Jennifer Key teaches at Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas. Copyright © 2010 Johns Hopkins University Press