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 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.
Posted by Chad Helder at 6/06/2011 11:57:00 PM