K. Edwards


It wants the dog, the whole dog
and isn’t content with merely pocking hocks
or gnawing paws and withers. Even the finest pair
of tweezers fail to pluck it from a hair
once it’s dropped down and popped its tusks
inside the hide to loot the blood around the roots—
all puckered up and puffed on spirits.

O how it cheers its supernatural soul to scratch its
itch on the back of a bitch, flee and haunt
a different haunch before the villagers agree to fight
back against the mite and stake him by the collar.