The Shot
The puppy I just watched get run over and I go check the garden to see if the lettuce has sprouted yet. She sniffs at the dirt and says Nope—another day or two. We grab one end of a stick and Louie chomps the other for tug-o-war. With the puppy who lit out from under the vintage Indian bike on a crushed leg, I go check the mail. No mail. She runs circles around me back towards my house. At her house there’s nobody home. She is at the shelter getting morphine and her squashed belly assessed by a vet, and commences to dig a hole near my trash can. I ask her if she is afraid or lonely, and she says to throw her the ball. It’s midnight and She torpedos through Louie’s dog door into my bed because there’s snow on the ground. She laps up a big drink of water with her fast little tongue and wonders if the guy on the bike is okay. —Well, he’s pretty mad but he’ll get over it. Some scrape on his helmet, I tell her, You don’t mess around. We sit on the sofa watching Making It Grow. I rub her face, so ugly it’s cute. She says she’s just got to chase bikes, it’s a genetic thing. At the shelter the vet gives her the shot. As I weed the collards I hold her in my lap, gently, because she’s so badly damaged. Drowsy, she licks the earthy sweat of my hand.
© 2006 Katherine Williams
A prose poem starts off with an absurd proposition and carries on weaving its tangled web, eventually be resolved, or not. If this poem is incomprehensible, it’s because it is.
The author gratefully acknowledges publication of “The Shot” in Southern Poetry Anthology: South Carolina, William Wright and Stephen Gardner, Eds., Houston: Texas Review Press (2007)
