Pollination
One morning, as Hank Kalet was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in his bed he had been changed into a monstrous verminous squirrel.
A recent poem, written after my dogs went at it on Halloween:
THERE IS NO GOOD WAY TO BREAK UP A DOGFIGHT
The Web sites tell you to get behind
them, grab the back legs and lift
like a wheelbarrow, keep your head
and arms away or, adrenaline-fueled,
they might turn and bite. They’re locked,
mind and jaws clamped tight, growls
booming like jet fighters, fangs at the neck
ripping like schrapnel through fur and flesh.
Blood spatter on the floor, the walls,
a crime scene. And me – arm bruised, ear torn,
shoulder scratched, blood on the pants –
collateral damage as the combatants lick
each other clean and we wander like refugees
in the quiet aftermath of the blast.
