by Erik Tschekunow
Jesus, Tick, not again, blood-
glutted, arachnid thug plucked
from the belly of my birddog
mutt, I have it in me
to ruin you, to smack that smutty
hematophagy from your harpoon
lips, to pick off each of your eight legs
making wishes as I go—for one
that god or nature or whatever
would chitin a nymph like you would quit
giving me such wicked impetus,
like—hear me, Tick, listen to how
inhumane I sound, deranged even—
I’ve been wishing death
upon this dog, my beloved pet,
and it’s not like she’s old or sick,
and it’s not like I’ll refuse to feed
or groom her—this is a private revilement,
a voodoo I practice in my ribcage.
What is it, Tick? Must I press you
into a shadowy crook of my body,
let you spit back the pith of me?
There are men, I’ve heard, that get
to a point when they loosely hope
all they’ve built for themselves
burns down. I hope I’m not so foolish
to think eliminating my dog will advance
any kind of renewal; and especially now,
leaning in close enough to notice
slight hiccups in her breath
like pins against my intentions,
I hope whatever hope
numbs the strains of faith
is in me, even if shelled
like the charge of a bomb;
a hope, a hope, and you, Tick,
wriggling in my pinch, your name
the click that heralds a boom.
Ovenbird Poetry 