Hound Dog

By Violet Russell

Skin—snub velvet tightened around an Irish harp—
Every movement is weary of the next, limp dog limp.
The brook is beaten brass, the color of warm cola.
Lap it up, paw print in the mud, all four fingers
and a thumb, I left a bit of myself a ways back,
on the steamy cement, my ghost limb has memories,
denaries of rorschaching ravens savaging what little I was.
It’s quickly forgiven, the violence, the scrapping,
the plucking of soft tendon cords, there is a small blush,
a kick from the heart, something had wanted you.
Here comes a van, rubber rumbles against the road.
I’m waiting for Godot, this hounddog is shameless,
Flattened ears, hanging gray tongue, penduluming tail.
This isn’t the first time they’ve come around here,
and I can’t help myself, going back for my routine beating.
Cough up my stuffing, warm, sticky, red behind the ear.
Tonight, I’ll swallow up all that missing sawdust,
Self-cannibalizing, hopeful to turn into something new,
and leave no one seconds, like a good beggar should.