ISSUE: Spring 2019
It is difficult to bark while
the teeth are clinched
so it goes, deep growl
after mean-ass growl
and tug. The oldest holds
her jaw low and doesn’t
cease her pull and the mud
slings but not the thing
the dogs won’t let go of.
Scraped, inedible and nothing
is left on the bone that
is no bone or for dogs
to chaw on. I ask from my
head amongst the sick
commotion, what could
force me to fight for things
that are not there. How form
might make a difference
in who might fix their fists
to fight for some real shit.
Neither of the dogs authored
the thing but invest their teeth
in the thrash of blood
and ripped up brawn
slush and constant Delta
rainwater. No one wants it
more than dogs and no one but
the dogs will fight. So we let them
mix the mud and blood, the bone
saliva drenched and fractured
and the fight feels closer
to pride than it is to hunger
closer to territory or seniority
than it is the mortality
these bitches go to work in.
And what have the teeth been
after all this time? What drove
this one bitch to want
the dry bone badder than
this other bitch did?
