by Eric Angal
Dog/Hens
‘Yes, but there’s a quiet dignity in it…’
Where? I’ve been looking everywhere and I
can’t find it, can only see the
pervert texture of wet snow flirting with a
postcard sky, and you, bisecting the whole of it.
Of course, there are intimations of
some ‘divine intangible,’ lurking like a spider
between your shoulders and the snowcapped horizon—
as if those mottled teeth were fit to frame
a woman of your ilk.
But with the sunset’s arrival, I forget all about that,
distracted by the dog
chasing hens in your garden.
I can feel its heart
swelling with hope:
as if the world to come
were like some great storybook adventure,
or marvelous dream.
Thesis
The axioms of this thesis
were made evident to me in a dream.
They are as follows:
the border between the dog
and the air surrounding it
comprises neither dog, nor air.
And the power of your invective
derives itself from a tenderness
of equal weight.
All of your neuroses
were shaped by these two principles
as well as a third, quieter one,
which is incredibly simple—
so simple, you cannot name it,
although it knows your name.
It sits patiently
beneath your father’s gambrel rafters,
anticipating your safe return.
****