2 September 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 3

Thorn

by MIGUEL MURPHY

– for Chico

My eye never filled with blood.

I never asked why

was I drugged and held down. Taken away.

Mesmerized. I wasn't a two-headed dog: two faces

both biting a squeal

in the University Hospital for Animals.

I never transformed daylight

dismembering doctors along dark nails.

I never growled

like you—I'd never crouched in fear

loving tail, teeth, mouth, eyes, spine.

I never had power

when I was awake to flee. Friend, I'm sorry

you had to inhabit pain. While you struggled

the devil held you,

muzzled then stroked your fur

folding your ears flat. I witnessed him

but put my head down

on the small white clouds, those pillows of antiseptics that kill

mucus and germ. I slept in the sterile

place while they examined

your eye, scratched by silver glochids. Night mostly

is soft, except for a cactus.

When finally you laid your tongue

across my lips I knew

they had returned you to a weakling—I

would fondle you. Feed you sweet milk. Pat your skull.

Praise you for acting like such a self-flagellator. You monk.

You crocodile. You nightmare. Tonight in your sleep you frighten

like a beast, but not to wake.

I smear black balm against your one burnt sun because to me

a thorn is inhuman and cruel.