" Autumn Dogs "
It could go either way she wanted.
The time of year, celebratory. She felt
the change of season behind her eyelids,
dazzling yellows fanning her to sleep.
Her husband's childhood dog, Suzie
was a black-lab who walked him to the bus stop.
She lived a long life, 20 plus, almost impossible
for a dog that size. His parents locked her
in the barn while she bled, fleas covered her.
They could hear her whimper through weathered
wood. "Cruel," he thought but never dared
to let her out. She never had pups.
It hadn't been written down. The heather,
the sunflowers, bent and black. Mist
rose from the lakes. Early morning sun
shine waded towards the center of tangled
weeds spread out like a drowning woman's hair.
A neighbor loved the curve of the wife's
buttocks, the only part of her not like a boy.
After the party, the three of them walked home
rather than drive. They wound up on the floor,
while her husband gently snored on the couch.
The neighbor ran his fingertips
up and down her ass, the only part where
she had cleavage, a place never explored.
"This is how you were meant to be had."
He told her, backing her into a scythe-moon,
like a feral dog. She curled back her husband's
eyes, tried to wake him, but he didn't stir.
Next morning, she cracked guilty eggs alone
in the dim kitchen, ignoring the occasional
strand of blood. They both ignored the pain,
the bloody stain, the howling in the barn.
© 2004 Laurie Byro
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