By Inuya Schultz
you handfeed me
sour grain
from a satchel on your hip
and then carry me like a disease
into the cockpit.
we – the one who would survive and I
are lowered to the ground, spurs wound tight on our ankles
we
shake our heads
this is apology, not aggression.
a choir of dogs are caged and captive
singing in this damp, brutal geography
these sad beasts smell of
piss and metal and sebum and earth and hunger are
inbred with hate and horrified and dope-eyed
they are still wet from last night’s bloodshed
and the death from the night before that, see
they never dry completely
they always appear to have just come in
from the rain.
is my life worth much tonight?
the way you hold me in vice says
oh yes a lot
you
yellow-stained shirt and borne denim–
your hands are covered in cruel matter
concrete, tar, tobacco, brown blood
there is ink from your betting ticket
smudged on the tips of your fingers
And then we are released
and I decide to say this is not a fight
to the bird missing half of his comb this is a submission
and this bird with one, tired eye
bows before me in solemn respect
this is my honor – your life
is not worth my breath
/
and oh
how it is quick
the one choice I make with this life:
a single-bladed spur
in my breast
and the dog choir begins a dirge
as you howl into cupped palms,
and
collapse
on the mud floor.
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