Posted by: Shanna Germain | 01/21/2010

Pg. 195: Hair of the Dog

[Five-minute poem. Mostly written while walking the dog beneath a tarry, starry sky]


“In Scotland, it is a popular belief that a few hairs of the dog that bit you applied to the wound will prevent evil consequences. Applied to drinks, it means, if overnight you have indulged too freely, take a glass of the same wine next morning to soothe the nerves. ‘If this dog do you bite, soon as out of your bed, take a hair of the tail in the morning.'” ~Dictionary of Phrase and Fable


Hair of the Dog

If I lap at the corner of your mouth it is because
consequences spill from your collar, curled tufts
frothing between starched folds. I don’t even drink.
Lost items, like silver keys and virginities, hang from
a loop around your neck. No one wants them back.
Everything you touch tastes of pennies. I finger
the blue maps your mouth unrolls across my thighs,
the stippled path from elbow to knees.
Without my glasses on, the key is unreadable.
Every morning I wake up to a mouthful of fur.
I don’t remember how it got there.
Or which one of us must be put down.


Far and fast, s.



  1. Lovely and sexy!

  2. Agree (as he ejects a hair from its lair)

    the resting place or den of a wild beast – WOW

    I like that

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