This is the poem
about my dog, a
shivering remnant of
obedient
mongrelization, a
linguistic conundrum:
purebred cur,
legitimizing a
bastard
heritage of
Choctaw stock,
Iberian leftovers
and something from
the French
nurtured by gombo, then
adopted by
adapted by
Acadian settlers.
They say Bedouins
take their horses
in tent,
house them as honored
family, see
them as extensions of
personal ego.
We throw ourselves out
instead sleep on
the ground: dig bones and
hunt in
unformed coordination
for broken
phrases to house
something more coherent
than motley but
less than kind.