by Christine Barkley
When I first take
my rescue dog to the vet
he gives her a treat
and she holds it
gently in her mouth
for the entire appointment.
He tells me that she has
a soft mouth; that she
is likely a gundog mix,
tempered to carry quarry
back to the man
with the gun.
My own jaw always aches,
but I don’t recall
gritting, grinding.
My tongue tastes of tongue,
the blood and muscle of it,
and my hands are just wounds.
I remember how, exhausted
by pursuit, I have sometimes
laid my own murdered self
at the mercy
of the man with the gun.
I remember now, gutted,
that I was not bred
to release a body
without bite marks.
What martyred memories
have I retrieved,
brought back ruined by teeth?
What furtive violence
has my howling finally,
finally flushed out?
What have I been holding
not-so-softly
in my intemperate mouth?
(first published in Salamander, Issue 55)
Christine Barkley 