Emily Vance Brown

A shotgun in the backyard silences the barking.

Don’t misunderstand me,

the man has not shot his dog. 

In the morning, when the man wakes,
the bitch will be gone,           her only trace
the holes she chewed in his once-brand-new suede leather boots.

The other dogs will howl until they tire
of the raucous and return to lick
the man’s bare feet while he weeps. 

The man, 

who will witness the great return.

The man, 

who only cries when he’s not alone. 

The man, 

who forgets he was something else first.

He prays for the end of the world.

 

A shotgun in the backyard shortens the praying.

In theory, 

not so great a tragedy. 

There are always other men willing,
or waiting, to seduce stray dogs          home
with a flank of rib or a rawhide bone.

She empties his pockets on the way out,
a sinner in the rags of a traveling thief
as she unbuilds his home, stone by stone

The thief,

who speaks with the heretic’s voice. 

The thief,

who stitches the wounds that a lesser man sowed 

The thief,

who begs the others: come with me.

She buries the dogs by the sycamore tree.

 

A shotgun in the backyard raises the dead.

They circle like wolves against the house
in-between the here          the there
A nightmare’s daydream of a time before, or,

an apocalypse already past, embedded
under the skin, to remind us of the
inevitabilities we are left with:

The dog,

who is only a dog, who forgives

The man,

who is only a man, who envies

The thief,

who was never a thief, though she often forgets–

And you, whining like a dog in heat.