Dog Bite
by H. R. Webster

At the end of this poem the dog dies. 
8 months later, the winter you got sober, after the third attack.   
We are most dangerous when we are ashamed.  I tried    

To forgive him, picked blue plums from the tree where he was chained, still alive
But alone nights in the orchard, baying at the coyotes’ musky tracks.
At the end of this poem the dog dies. 

In August I straddled your chest, cut out the black stitches under your eye
With sewing scissors, the crane’s bladed beak. Is he still handsome? my mother asks. 
We are most dangerous when we are ashamed.  I tried

To picture your face, the moment before you called the dog to you, but after your lie: 
Just 3 drinks, your mouth a dripping rip. I was afraid before the blood, knew already, perhaps,
That at the end of this poem the dog dies. 

But that night, bruising under waiting room fluorescents, we begged for his life, falsified
Our story to the hospital cops. They snapped their gum, boots pants pen gun, all black.
We are most dangerous when we are ashamed.  I try

To turn away. Your cheek enters his rough mouth. Did he know the danger I could not yet identify?
A forbidden thought. But remember, love, that summer’s bared, thirsty syntax? 
We are most dangerous when we are ashamed.  I tried. 
At the end of this poem the dog dies.

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H.R. Webster has received fellowships from the Fine Arts Work Center, Vermont Studio Center, and the Helen Zell Writers’ Program. Her work has appeared in the Massachusetts Review, Black Warrior Review, Ninth Letter, Fairy Tale Review, Sugar House Review, 32poems, Seattle Review, The Journal, and Ecotone. You can read more of her work at HRwebster.com.