Monday, August 3, 2015

Catherine Wald


Teeth, even of largish dogs
can be so small they leave no trace
on the warp and woof of flimsy slacks–
just a tiny purple emblem like a
fleur-de-lis on the inner calf,

proving that plush purveyors of adoration aren't
perfect; they have rough edges, jaws, incisors.
On occasion they flash back to their
wolfish ancestry and can't resist
taking a nip at raw flesh.

In a world where species comingle in unnatural ways
where love’s bartered for food, warmth is precious as
water, and humans are unpredictable,
who can blame them? Even the bitten
understand the lure of instinct,
the lust to grab something solid
in the maw and chew it, hard.

Catherine reads "Bite":

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Catherine confesses: "A dear friend of mine has a dog with, let’s say, behavioral issues, and he bit me a couple weeks ago. I was nowhere as upset as my friend, but I did get a tetanus shot. I wrote this poem to cheer her up and also to show my continuing support for the canine species."

CATHERINE WALD is an author and poet with an unimpressive criminal record. Her chapbook, Distant, burned-out stars was published by Finishing Line Press in 2011.

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