Home > write365. > Day 7 (2).

Day 7 (2).

When the Westboro Baptist Church picketed my dog’s funeral

I was digging a grave. Rained for three nights prior
as the moon settled into the dark, into the starscape
scattershot. The red red clay wetly squelches
underfoot.

The whole world: smelling like the vinegars
of Job’s tears. At length I pitched the hole
four feet deep. Slaked in mud, born naked
in it: this incubator of life

and death. My father could still walk then, unhobbled.
His back: flexed and hardened, the fine haze of sweat
lifting from his flesh. Shrill squall of a buzzsaw, spice
of a split pine.

Husk of the mutt swaddled in our old tarpaulin, stark
and stiff. The advent of dusk: a congregation of sign-
bearers at the property line: GOD HATES FAGS. Calling
out scripture: Thou shalt not sniff another dog’s hind.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s rawhide,
and neither shalt thou squat on the new rug,
and so forth. The DOGPOCALYPSE: upon us
now and, like in war, those with signs will be

first to go.

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