Of Them

When my father was at work, Momma would bring Bandit in to nap
with us kids. She tried not to ruin him for us but worried, always
sure to tell us not to let on the dog had been let in.

I keep remembering those hunting dogs he kept in a crowded pen—
the ones he’d forget needed food or water, the ones my Momma
would then take pity upon and care for. Never knew

names but why would I? Part of them wouldn’t last past throwing
their bodies over the fence they climbed—loosely collared,
catching the emblems of ownership on the fence tops

stealing both breath and escape, before my Momma would find
flea’d bodies hanging. I hear he breeds now, the high-dollar
dogs, those collared by prices. Little changes past

original scheme: the want for glory, the only thing really hunted,
the thing that comes and goes, always eaten up while good
intent is no more than fatty scraps thrown to strays.

Becoming more used to how men like him do, my sister and I aged
into watching. From the living room window, she witnessed
as our father and his like-him friend were hollering

and going on, throwing rocks at our Maggie—from the front door
my sister shot out, kneeling to grab at gravel as she got near,
slinging hard as she could at the men and the trucks

they leaned against, getting herself cussed at while she cussed back
getting our dog free. Teen-aged, I’d wait for him to get home
angry at everything he thought I was thinking, ready

to hush it all; Dylan would near enough piss himself positioning
himself between us, remaining as long as needed. My father
never dared to hit me but took it upon himself to

try and break me all the same. But Momma, never one to allow
hurt to happen, taught us to let dogs teach us—of them
I learned: dogs may not want to bite, but we will.