Chicano Poet

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Guest Poet Rebecca Flores


On his return from a hunting trip,
my father brought back our dog
in a bloodied cardboard box.

No one said a word;
Tigre’s eyes and the
awful gash in his side told the story.

We held him down
as my father took a strand of catgut
and a needle from a bottle filled with alcohol.

When only a seam showed,
we followed my father in the house;
there was nothing else to do.

Our dog was already healing;
all he had to do
was lie still and let it hurt.

copyright@2005 by rebecca flores


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