In black & white photo
at Midtown Library
you sit in grass
near ivied arch
of your dark-wood house
on Joy Farm
your mother
rising behind you
your sister Elizabeth
smiling beside you
her arm ribboned over
Rex’s broad brown chest
his spiked collar
bordering stout white head.
Your sweatered arms
embrace shrugged knees
of your knickers
your eyes cast down
as if you see
what lies ahead
one day that summer
on Silver Lake
when Rex snaps at hornets
and your canoe rolls over
boat and life preservers
sinking like corpses.
You and Elizabeth
grab at floating boxes
as panicked Rex
pulls Elizabeth under
her blond curls
dark as lake bottom
darting back up into air
then down
and up.
Your screams
gagged by water
you grab dog collar
and spikes rip your palms
as Rex’s weight clamps to you
like squid’s arms
his claws carving
your face throat shoulders.
Noose of your hands
spews with crazed adrenalin
as you strangle this life you love
your swim-strong legs
kicking you on top
your body weight
pushing him down
drowning
this sudden insane enemy
his claws gnawing your chest
bloody vein of bubbles
sizzling up from his nostrils
from his gurgling mouth
and brown-white water
fuming with breath
then less
and less
then only ripples
as white-red paws
slide limp to your waist
and dead weight forces
you to let go.
Holding your sister’s
tear-eyed face
you find two floating boxes.
Your swollen tongues
find no words
as you gnarl through water
toward shore.
You are 12 years old.
You will live to 67
but never keep another dog.
Roger Armbrust
1998
