We worked within the womb of the hospital
As headlights streaked the street outside.
A door bell fractured the industry.
Two ghosts appeared and appealed,
The purple bundled blanket in their arms hiding a snout, a paw,
Ushered in by a wave of innocence.
They spilled the dog onto the table.
The dog! A pulsing streamlined random Shepherd of hair and beauty whose feet walked a path unique,
The sights emulsified upon its eyes never to be spoken or viewed again by any but tranquility.
He fell from our hands, his parts rolling freely.
A medical photo spilled from the tear in his neck:
A shoulder blade lined by rilles of raw white nerves breathed each breath in my hands.
Doctor Greene grabbed for a paw,
But it was gone…
They were all gone, ground to the bare white joints. Bloody.
Hers was all I heard in that British voice so queer for an Angel,
“I’m afraid we’ve got a non-stahter.”
The dog lay quiet.
We pumped purple juice into its vein with a yelp.
It died quietly.
So did I.
by Jason DeGrande
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