Monday, June 06, 2011

Boy and His Dog

I place my face inside her skull-mask
as I peer through the blur-hair;
the blizzard of her bangs
descends over my eyes
in white-out erasure.

I crawl into the dog,
a costume,
a silky-white cocoon.

My foamy tongue dangles past my chin,
and I am helpless to tuck it back inside my lips.
The passages inside my nose branch and turn,
multiplying into the labyrinth
of the dog's odor-understanding.

I feel the white hair blear the clarity of my eyes,
and I transmogrify into the dog again
just like the old movie with Tommy Kirk.

I place the white dog costume
between myself and the camera
in this black-and-white family comedy.
I place the white dog’s mammalian warmth
between myself and the world.
Her image, her symbol, the idea of the white dog
filters my secret.
Her hair turns as black as a shadow,
as black as a pubic hair
with what the white dog filters.

The white dog costume
bleaches my fear of the dark.
I clutch her like a flotation device
as the shadow flash floods the neighborhood.

She buoys me up from the drowning,
buoys me up like a coffin
in which you will find me.

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