The Next Weird Sister Builds a Dog Run

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With fortune’s damned 
            quarreling smile, 
                        the neighbors complain 

as they do with each move. 
            She snarls and follows bloody 
                        instructions, measuring off 

a corner of cruelty, 
            figuring, in metrical codes, 
                        the division of her loves, 

her errors. Her dogs 
            pace the length of chain 
                        link, jump with 

vaulting ambition, 
            snap at the crossed 
                        purpose of penning. 

Dog nights she stands 
            on the edge of enclosure 
                        and listens 

to nasal whines, 
            while disciples of 
                        lies call her to 

this sacrilege. 
            Here laws cease to 
                        operate. With the opposite 

of faith she submits 
            to this new religion. 
                        Still, through locked gates 

she pets dull fur, 
            whispers pet names, 
                        serves each mouth red milk. 

Neighbors console themselves 
            in steel and wire dreams. As if a run
                        will hold dogged thoughts. 

She knows better and moves 
            out a straw mat, if not 
                        for to sleep, then 

to lie with obsession, 
            comforting some poor dog 
                        a hundred choices ago. 

What name shall we give it 
            — this pain, this pain — 
                        so public and private?