Southern Fried Weirdness

By Janie Hofmann

The moon was a cracked
white tongue when I saw
you emerge from the haw haw,
cursing my choice of your burial plot.
Coyotes, ears flat, howled
you to your feet as the trout trail
wiggled like the dirty belly
of that old hog I would not eat
that spring the evil ground
closed like a frosted eye lid
to any seed or plough.
In your cold rising the saw
that bit when you were seven
was skinned of its teeth
and without your limp
you were standing so tall.
I had traded your bowl
for corn mash and peas
and you floated to the house
like fog, cobwebbing the bed
and fireplace but when you went
to the empty crib I ran outside
for the axe. That alone was enough
to save the rest of me. I chanted
grandma's old German,
made a stew of back bacon
kept trying to stir you away.
The wife came home with cowslip
and belladonna. I told her of your visit.
She said you were still the best dog
I ever had.

Copyright © 2008, Janie Hofmann