We had this neighborhood dog.
She'd just come up from down the road,
From the wrong side of the tracks, they'd say.
No tags, no name,
but she answered to, Hey You.
Some people thought she was part-wolf,
but I'd always say Heyyou was too kind to have wolf in her
because she had these markings,
like someone was trying to keep her down
and I'd always say,
if she were part-wolf, she'd have killed that mother-fucker
I would have.
And they'd always say,
What if the point
Was to bear it, a little?
Get through it, quietly?
Like the First Time,
or Last Goodbye?
I'd think about that often
Drudging along a grey road
with nothing but an overcoat to cling to,
and the sound of blood pumping in my ears,
and I'd feel shame because I'd wish her dead.
Remember simpler times?
Remember the sound of silence
bearing the weight of secret thoughts?
Were they pure?
Were they virtuous?
Can you remember?
What if we hadn't a name, or known origin?
If we'd just shown up like Heyyou
Bruised. Bloodied. Panting
What would revolution look like, then?
we'd kneel down and say,
Old Girl, you need to fight!
Give it up!
But she'd just smile,
nudge us a bit with her soft, wet, nose
and head back down the road
to God Knows Where.