When he put the revolver to the heads of the neighbor's dogs
he didn't know you were only a mile away,
curled in pink and white pajamas,
down the roads of Botetourt that roll like tongues
in soft, wet, unsuspecting mouths.
He didn't think anyone would hear the shots
the high yelps as they tried to get away.
He didn't know the ghost dogs visited your windows
that night and many nights thereafter,
eyes whiter than the moon in full,
snouts wrinkle back, expose foaming teeth,
bristled hair standing as tall as August grass,
still barking, even though he went to silence them,
still barking, even though they were only your mind.
