Gerald Yelle
Musk
I said the hound seems to have it
in its head that it’s human.
I said it mimics our tics
and grimaces. She said I had it
backwards: The dog wasn’t
acting human. She said I was the one
chewing grist and pencil shavings.
What do you mean, I said
it just barked twenty minutes
of creation myth. She said I was
like a wolf moving in when
no one was looking. I was like
a shadow body war and famine
drove from its homeland.
She said when the dog starts
imitating your perversions
maybe I’ll think you’re onto
something. Though what
I don’t know. I said I must’ve
had blinders on. I thought you
liked me. I locked myself
in the bathroom. The weight
of all my frailty alarmed me
to the point where I thought
about moving out with my shadow
tied low on my back. But I had
a body that sagged and wore
blinders, clicked beads
and spat dust. The most I’d do
was search the streets for cures
for rash and missing pieces.
Other work by Gerald Yelle