ETHAN GILSDORF
THE WOUND
Sunday morning, birch-bark snow.
Our landlord’s dog suddenly hits the Plexiglas
of our back door, his paws split by zero
or below. On each of his pads a gash
leaking rose. Ours is a second home for him.
Against the door a second bash
and he’s in, this Doberman
dotting the carpet with bloody moons.
For now he’s ours, on loan again,
so we hold down the dog and wrap the wounds
as we would for a human, our kid,
though we know we’ll never have one.
Besides, nothing else ever did
need us, or seem to gauge
our love. The dog limps. He hates the adhesive
and the oversize paws.
How should his new feet work?
He gives up quickly, maybe it’s his age,
and settles on the rug to lick.
His tongue can’t get at the cut.
Instead, he laps at the white plastic,
content, an exile from his own blood,
as if licking in the vicinity were enough.
