Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Thirty-four
Spring 2014
 
Thirteen Thirteen-Word Dog Stories
(and a Fourteenth of Fourteen Words)
George Kalamaras

One wildebeest cow (with calf) traverses the moon-lathed night, avoiding the sleeping hyenas.

*

Once upon a rhyme, only canine time echoed through sassafras stump and willow-root.

*

Everything is Brahmsian, from an Indiana dog’s death to your cough of trees.

*

The possum is nocturnal, arboreal, nesting in hollow trees, in stumps and twigs.

*

That day I brought loose-leaf white tea to Cataract Falls for after meditation—

*

The story begins: I am mythical in my grief, fascinated by Wallachian Sheep.

*

Our animal selves quiver prolonged silk down to the river of our feet.

*

Historically, death in Romania is always north of what we hope to avoid.

*

The story should always end this way: I, too, will one day die.

*

If I confessed self-hate, surely you’d look away, squatting on your own grave.

*

When the copyright is up, our souls become part of the public domain.

*

In other words, show me raccoon innards and predict a hound’s soft under-throat.

*

Musical half-weather—you are now a minor key, a baying melancholy note.

*

Thus, Brahms was untiring in his efforts to raise every dog from the dead.

About George Kalamaras

Previous Poem | Next Poem