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What’s this dead beast
my dog is playing with?

Old Buddy races through the yard,

clenching a blackened corpse in his
teeth, the image of triumph.

He stops. He whips his head
from side to side,

seeding the earth with scraps
of putrid flesh.

The shaken carcass flips, its short legs splay.

Its eyes are only empty holes;
the eyeballs have dropped out.

Pheeew!

Even with my eyes closed
I could guess what’s going on.

The air is reeking with decay.

I buried that dead squirrel a week ago.

My dog has dug it up again….

What’s this dead thing
my mind is playing with?

The quarrel races through my brain.

Clenching injustice in mental debate,
always I triumph.

My enemy is limp. He only answers
back when I supply him with some lines to say.

And then I shake him, shake him
with my final argument.

Stupid, blind—he has no insight
till I make him see my point.

Pheeew!

Even with my mind closed,
I should guess what’s going on.

The air is thick with bitterness.

I buried that dead feud a year ago.

Now I have dug it up again.

Rebecca Cerling Powers