Pg. 195: Hair of the Dog

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

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“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

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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.

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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

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the blue maps your mouth unrolls across my thighs,

the stippled path from elbow to knees.

Without my glasses on, the key is unreadable.

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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.

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Far and fast, s.