This is a short, odd piece that I’ve been sitting on for awhile now. I’m not always the best judge of my own work, but I will say that I feel something here is not working, though I can’t put my finger on it….
Nonetheless, I thought I’d share, because I don’t really see this poem/fragment/thing ever finding a proper home…or getting the overhaul it surely needs, because I’m not too worried about it to be honest. It will most likely die here. And that’s okay. We have an understanding.
On the Isle of Black Dogs
You pressed your teeth into my skin,
left behind a savage throbbing.
Rough orange tongues of sun
licked the west side of our cabin
then scattered away like rabbits.
A deep biting cold rode ashore
on the ripples stones make
as they cut into a body of water,
the promise of winter’s arrival,
dead things dangling from its teeth,
crept across the lake,
its yellow eyes burning