What do you call a dog
that refuses to recoil
no matter how many electric shocks
pass through her collar bone?
Look! She drools looking
across the lawn with the skin
under her white fur
tingled and raw. Look at
the way the skin has turned
red like a beet root.
If angels are watching, they ain’t
bothering with the poor fool’s hope.
They ain’t going to seep through
her brain, and convince her that
is something that must come
without much hustling.
One must learn to let things happen,
to loosen the noose of yearning,
remove the tacks from the must-haves.
Not all greener grass, not all bluer sky
outside of her domain are worthy of her pain.
Look! She stands alone, barking
at the invisible god.
Doesn’t know to roll back her tongue,
heel meekly on the driveway,
maybe even take a nap,
within the lines drawn by her fate.