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Seen Through
We thought he looked a seer
as we saw his briared body,
bloody paws, and the eyes
clenched so tight, they seemed
stitched closed, until we knew
the lids held with cement glue,
loose bits dried at the muzzle.
gave up, merely crawled
the woods, listening for voices.
Only we showed, and he had to know
if we were the ones. The dog moved
as if his skin were swaddling
he could unwrap to the bones, to two
hard pupils in the sockets
like marbles or rocks one might use
to divine truth, or what had been,
or what was going to come
of all this. We could watch no more,
blindfolded
him with a kneesock,
lifted him onto the floorboards
as if this were our justice,
our hands heavy but empty
like perfectly balanced scales. |
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Terri McCord lives in
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Date of Publication: 31 Oct 2007 |
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