will we have time for our hands
to roam wherever they need?
along night air and balcony railings,
damp noses sniffing the air for intruders,
mayflies whispering against the knuckle of your
ring finger for three quarters
of a second
we remember the freedom of being strays,
how loneliness stays as ticks and fleas.
we can’t outrun good intentions.
someone is always a phone call
away from what they call
if i had an insect’s body
i would whisper with my wings
like a dog whistle that only you can hear,
telling you we have to leave this place.
but as it is, we fill these canine back
alley corners better than anyone else
we are dogs feeding
from the same bowl. you growl,
i whine. our teeth are our defense.
if we are chained, we will be loud about it.
snapping teeth. bristled backs. we have
no other options
we want to be found. we don’t want
to be found. if chains are gone
then we will have the memory of chains.
if hands are the reason for chains,
we will break hands
and remember them as fists
we stand in the rain
of our own frightened smell,
keys rumbling in our bellies.
troubled dogs will always belong
to their original masters.