[Here is the Eighth Section of 17, my ongoing epyllion on the subject of a spree shooting. After a short prologue that picks up on previously alluded to political themes, Section 8 presents a sort of negative image of the park shootings recounted in the third part of Section 7, this time seen from the point of view of dogs. I apologize to dog-lovers for having portrayed their pets here as instinct-driven monsters that soak up and act out the worst character traits of their owners and masters. I myself am definitely a cat person. Still, this cathartic scherzo-like section of an otherwise gruelingly dark and sad poem was kind of fun to write. It is dedicated to my deceased cats, Oedipuss and Cassandra. The poem as a whole is crammed with the voices of ghosts, even feline ones.]

 

The squire commands fences, men

with muskets, bloodhounds keeping

the game; a coat of arms, kangaroo

courts, eviction orders & the shadow

of a hangman’s noose. The poacher

has a cork-blacked face, stealth,

retrofitted farmyard implements, a snare,

a trap, the cloak of night, eggs

pilfered from a nest. Battle

is done through rustlings of undergrowth,

bated breath, tripwires, bursts of shot,

under an absent moon.

*

The unleashed dogs in the park

go beserk, as if some inner whistle

had set them off. Fear and anger,

flight and fight excited in equal measure

& intermixed, as bullets crackle and snap through

the still summer nasturtium-scented air

and crack their targets with a silent pop.

Painted Dolly still dressed as a flapper girl

tumbles into the dirt, rushing after

her pampered poodle snapped up

in the jaws of a Rottweiler off the chain

and tossed up into the air like a bag of trash.

Terriers, spaniels, pointers, setters, retrievers, boxers, pitbulls,

racing greyhounds, bulldogs, Afghans, German

Shepherd dogs, dachshunds, Dalmatians, and plush Pekingese,

skinny Chihuahuas cowering in the flowerbeds,

all unrein their inbred instincts

into cacophony and chaos, baying,

like Oedipus,

against the god-playing

shadows of men,

against the petting that proves

it is better never to have been;

like Cassandra,

they wail and warn

of doom in vain.