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Poetry: "Henry" An old blonde dog takes care of me. His faceis scarred, his hips protrude. Heís out of bark, he cannot smell his food. He cannot taste the pills I place behind his tongue. I stroke his throat, he swallows them. Good boy. On three good legs, he follows me from day to day as if the days were trees, his favorite trees; and all their shade were love, the shade he lies beneath; the live roots cradling his bleached canoe of ribs. And death curls sweet, and licks my hands and neck, and leads him by its leash from my desk side, where he waits and looks at me, my stumbling pen, my grip gone curled and weak. I cannot look at him. |