Dog Mind
by Charlotte Lewis Last night, still light, the old dog barked through the gate. Though anticipated he shocked and woke the child in me, leaving behind the age currently occupying. The entirety of my being questioned by a dog’s night duty. So, I’ve this feeling, coming up like a Sunday wearing spandex that stretches ‘round my body, clinging like a hiding place made of fire ants and stinging nettles. Mind like a dog, tail between its legs, rolls over to kiss your feet, has run off and waits patiently for the return of its owner; it’s a wonder it has no collar, or by now you haven’t called it by its single syllabic demeanour. in light of it all, I see my Dog. So loyal, and willing, and waiting, patiently. Sit; stay. Mind like a truck, runs over and backs up. Mind like his mistress-- coming home past 10 and telling me I won’t amount to it, with the smell of fear on its neck, behind its ear: Indulge and rest unconscious. Mind that’s been 12 times reduced, wired with anxiety, but tenacity is not absent. During the peak he tells me “can’t you just watch the washing machine spin?” A space to slip into when I slip out of myself. But the counter needs cleaning, and I have to call my mother, and I said that thing that I can’t help but go over, and over And I’m starting to think about the effort that goes into everything: The weaving of threads in my clothing, the soap, the spinning. I’m spinning in murky water, looking out from the drum. All I can be sure of, what draws forth some sort of temporary meaning, is everything I’m experiencing is in its nature so fleeting. 18