istock_000001218667xsmallThe power to affect comes only at night…

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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