A Poem By Natasha Simons

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

An Idea of the Rottweiler as an Amputee

A feeling that you are most classically lacking.
The feeling on the subway coming home.
You are trying to swallow the pill without any water.
He hates delay, but you have time.
The train braces itself for arrival and so do you.

At first it was hard that he loved you.
It was hard to accept the misshapen tail of his love.
Someone had cut it crudely;
it wore you away. It was erosion,
but the rock won.
After a while you learned to take him into you,
whole,
knowing that birthday was your only strong suit.
And you felt his savagery
as if to a drum beat
and you cried louder to its tim tim tim
each intrusion upon your skin
less tangible than the one before it
so that you wished fervently for his bruises
to remind you of what you’d done.
To fill it in.

Natasha Simons is pursuing her dream of a mahogany spice rack. She blogs here.

If it’s poems you’re looking for, you have come to the right place, because we’ve got a whole bunch of them right here, in The Poetry Section’s vast archive. You may contact the editor at [email protected].