My two hunting dogs have names, but I rarely use them. As I go, they go: I lead; they follow, the blue-eyed one first, then the one whose coloring—her coat, not her eyes—I sometimes call never-again-o-never-this-way-henceforth. Hope, ambition: these are not their names, though the way they run might suggest otherwise. Like steam off night-soaked wooden fencing when the sun first hits it, they rise each morning at my command. Late in the Iliad, Priam the king of Troy predicts his own murder— correctly, except it won't be by spear, as he imagines, but by sword thrust. He can see his corpse, sees the dogs he's fed and trained so patiently pulling the corpse apart. After that, he says, When they're full, they'll lie in the doorway, they'll lap my blood. I say: Why shouldn't they? Everywhere, the same people who mistake obedience for loyalty think somehow loyalty weighs more than hunger, when it doesn't. At night, when it's time for bed, we sleep together, the three of us: muscled animal, muscled animal, muscled animal. The dogs settle to either side of me as if each were the slightly folded wing of a beast from fable, part power, part recognition. We breathe in a loose kind of unison. Our breathing ripples the way oblivion does—routinely, across history's face. Copyright © 2019 Carl Phillips. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 31, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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