In which a man, a little shorter than me
Stepped past me on the sidewalk.
I didn’t like his face, so I swung
Into his gut, and he stumbled back, bent,
Then came towards me. I threw him to the
Ground and kicked at him,
His cheekbone crumpled. A thickness
Filled my mouth.
I woke up terrified at my heart,
And brain, at what it conceived, at
What a me did.
Still dark out, I swung out of bed
And crossed the room to our golden, Georgia,
Who slept curled on her dog bed.
I lay down and held her head
In my hands, and observed
Her bones, her empathetic eyebrows.
She opened her eyes and looked
Up at me, patient, my face inches from hers,
And I said, you couldn’t do that, G,
Could you? Could your jaws
Snap open right now, and lodge
Across my face, puncture my
Eyes, tear off my cheeks? You couldn’t
Do that, could you? She watched me, listening,
then closed her eyes. I buried
My face in her fur. Of course she could,
But she doesn’t.
She’s all the sweeter for it.
I fell asleep on the floor
next to her,
the sky lightening outside.
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