Purvi Shah
Sometimes, despite death, the canine spirit barks
at your gate, ready to launch a new betrayal, ready to pull you
into hell. This is why you kick the dog when it is down, why you
bring iron gate after iron gate after iron gate tumbling after your future-
clad feet. Sometimes you need to shoot a dead dog, again.
It's not that everything isn't already dead—those old feelings, heart's
torrents of pitter-patter, the way you melt at her phrase or his half-
whispered wish. No, all that's gone, carcassed & disintegrated,
crumbled & fumed.
Sometimes you need to shoot a dead dog, again.
You acknowledge: sometimes
you beckoned the dog, momentary
fit of nostalgia or wonder. You regret
this lapse, observe if it will bring you
back paceless paces, burnish new
sufferings. This is why it's best to let
sleeping dogs lie—without checking
to see if you can strike them—
or your future fate— alive.