Blackout

Suffer that Dog

In the hotel room my dad is asleep, so

out from the TV static it stretches two

dirty paws, maw slobbering on

the cream carpet before locking onto

my forehead, its canines leaving

something behind, damp and smelly, and

ever since then I could never

sit still, could never make it through

a lollipop without biting down or answer

to my name the first time or pray

in earnest. Knew I never would.

And that mutt didn’t go, no way.

It was skinny then, a stray, and when

I said “speak” it’d bark, bark

about men with hairy chests and

NyQuil chicken, sing in nightcore, and

howl

at night for a bitch to get pregnant and

to shut it up. I fed it.

Not dog food, no. Things I remembered

from crushes I’d pretended to have. Splinters,

scrawny legs, cough syrup, candy floss, candle wax,

blue light, toys: natural disasters in little glass bottles and

it wouldn’t trust anything it couldn’t get

its mouth around.

It never gained weight.

When the house is empty it tears up the place,

makes an enemy of the sofa and lights my graduation

cap on fire like it means something. Except one time it bites

the landline wire and I take the phone and whack

Its muzzle. Not hard. Not enough that it whines but

enough that it closes its eye and floats

up to the ceiling and won’t come down, and I

hate that mutt.

Hate the way it makes me see things its way, missing

colors and full of empty supermarkets and me,

the only person on earth, leaving to play in

the skyscrapers, never coming back this time

maybe. Except then I do.

And I hit it.

It rides the ceiling fan and points

that black needle nose at me and growls

like TV static, hungry for more. So

alright.

I’ll let you steal my shoes.

When I run my hands through your fur

I’ll be left with the feeling

of old playdough. But I’ll do it.

When you lick, sometimes my skin will

catch fire and

I’ll have people over and

they’ll love you more than me because

you’ll ask for it.

All you have to do is

beg.

I Like it

Splinters, scrawny legs, candy floss, candle wax, cough syrup, blue light.

Raw skin. Toys: Natural disasters in little glass bottles and

your name?

Could you repeat that? I meet you at

the cinema.

On the tram, drunk men chant a

football player’s name like a ritual.

I’m sorry, louder this time, what was that?

I know you’re older than me. I watch the lines in your face.

Everyday I get smaller and meaner. I shrink like the spinach I

left burning on the stove. My psychiatrist said

maybe I’m low on iron. I’m a vegetarian, somehow.

For now. For a while now. I’ve been using that to find

my way back to myself.

You offer to pay for dinner. I don’t stop you. I lost my

credit card, ordered a new one, but found it again

a month later. So I could pay. But I don’t want to.

Your name? Huh?

I’ll stop asking.

Why did your parents name you

Michael or George or whatever if

they wanted people to remember you.

Go to a graveyard and you’ll see your name over and

over again and I won’t see mine once.

Probably. Unless we’re in Wales.

I watched a documentary about orcas in captivity

once and I think I cried. You apologise

for the burger you eat in front of me, and

I want to take a bite out of your old wrinkly face.

You walk me to the station. Apparently, you're

kissing me.

I like it.

But I like that other stuff better.