The Boy With No Blood

He says to me:

The next time it gets bad, just put me down.

If you love me, don’t make me live like this another day.

What he’s asking for is the mercy that all dogs deserve.

He knows I can’t say no.

Upon examination, there was some argument

over his severity. How sick is he, doc, really?

They asked him to look through a kaleidoscope

and they convinced him that will be what

he sees at the end of the world.

Now, when he barks at strangers, I fear

they are kaleidoscope-people with pocketz

of bright beads perfectly mandalaed.

He’s ready to tear right into

their jeans, spill out the colors and let

the earth be engulfed

in a colorful kindergarten whimsy.

Each night, I feed him a slab of meat—David’s lion.

I question its rot. I cut it up anyway.

I can’t be superstitious or faithful anymore. A child asks,

What kind of dog is he?

Oh, just a sick one. I docked his tail,

his ears. Whisper something about pedigree.

I resent what the moon does to him,

how he runs towards it like a nocturnal Icarus,

never landing any further than the yard.

It’s time for his checkup. They ask me

if it’s gotten bad again yet. I don’t want to admit

that it has. I’ve taught him to walk upright

and hold a book with his hands like a real boy.

They put a needle in to extract nothing.

A few more draws and a few more empty vials.

They say it’s time to open him up.

Once he’s asleep, they make an incision.

There is no liquid, only light.

A perfect mirror image inside of him

of so many colors, more than the world

could handle.

The stitched him back up

and took no notes. The next time

someone drove by, they yelled out,

What kind of boy is he?

I smiled.

Just a boy with no blood.