Taylor Feld
When the dog
died, I saw it. Stillness
on stillness, animal
to object.
We outlive.
I stayed
in that room examining death —
where they put the needle,
where the eyes
look. Empty
frame, lend me
lycanthropy. Let
me bark and bolt
on four strong limbs
beyond mortality.
Keening
dog-sounds
when I see
the boy in the box.
I examine this new death —
how his head sinks,
how his hands
feel like facsimiles.
Let me howl.
Together we sharpened
our canine teeth, he
and I, hounds baying
laughter, laughter and
running after birds.
The object of him
is nothing like a dead dog.
No needle,
not a mercy, but again
I outlive.
Taylor Feld is a senior theatre major and creative writing minor at Northwestern University. They have many fake plants.
