Rufus's Dog.

Atkinson, Tiffany

RUFUS'S DOG So it takes the whole poem to imagine his dog. The dog was in his study when he called-- and no commandment she can think of takes a stand on the imagining of dogs. Across the rug it yawns with Heimlichkeit, a muscled bag of hearth-warmth. Just his fingers, where the skull collects the spine's chords, lift the muzzle's blunt love. But that's animals. Crossbreeds, she knows, are fickle when it comes to instinct. Over rolls this demijohn of fealty, open as a palm. Exquisite, how the skin takes touch. The eyes roll back. The universe contracts. And she observes the soft jewels of the genitals for she is known for thoroughness. It's an oldish dog, but not dead. In the pistons of the hips lie all the casual cruelties of fuck-- she sees the outraged neighbour storming from her kitchen with a bucket of cold water-- Get that mad hound off my Mitzi! Awkward teacups afterwards: the Wunderkinder pups some brutal husband dunks into the rain-butt. All the bevels of his no-good-boyo head against her knee, his steady heat as dreaming tears him fanging over plains. Where the ribcage clasps a wolf 's heart. People thinking she's the cat sort.