This is about how our father dealt
with a chicken-killing dog. No way could she hide
from him. He saw red feathers dangling
from her black lips and found the plump body
stashed behind the woodpile. He whistled,
Some enchanted evening, you will meet a stranger,
while uncoiling the twine, and with infinite gentleness,
he tied the limp hen around the dog’s neck
and stared until the dog lowered her eyes.
Then he actually invited the kids, the other dogs,
grown people, and even the cats to join him
in staring. Not one of us, praise be, were that
stupid or that complicit. Bad dog, he said,
you made me do this. The dog, not escaping
the yellow dangling feet, the smell, the crush
of feathers, the bloody beak, the dog whined
and groveled. Night took too long to arrive
and with it came disrupted sleep. In the morning
no one told about hearing a brush of wings
on the windowpane or seeing the half-moon
spill itself out across the fields and the pond.
All that cold, clean light the moon can’t take back.