by AE Hines
No fuzzy face
resting on furry paws,
no whimpering from the floor.
Give me a fury,
with rusted metal whiskers
and nostrils heaving flame,
something nether-worldly and gnarled.
A beast, that dare I give up on the world,
stares from the darkened corner
and considers eating me
if I do.
It’s true:
we have given ourselves over, again,
to the rule of evil men.
So we need a dog that bites.
A dog that gnaws us to our bones.
A three-headed hell bitch fit
for the River Styx, with brass bolts
in her collars, and bristling black fur
sharp as broken glass. A dog
that spits and snarls and snaps
at our ears
so we can’t—won’t—don’t dare
look away.
AE Hines is a poet living in Portland, Oregon. He is a recent Pushcart nominee and his work has appeared in numerous publications, including: Atlanta Review, California Quarterly, The Briar Cliff Review, Hawaii Pacific Review, I-70 Review, the Crosswinds Poetry Journal, SLAB, and Pinyon. www.aehines.net
Hawaii Pacific Review 