James Tyner

Attacked by a Pitbull, 1989

It’s buried in your forearm, your Christmas jacket tearing,
and its eyes are all white now, and its cheeks are puffed

with breath, with growls, and you’re thinking the kids
are going to be home soon, mom wants me to have dinner

ready, and it’s amazing how strong pit bulls are and you
wonder where it came from, think someone threw

out the trash this morning, left the backyard gate open
and now there’s a hundred and twenty pound dog yanking

at your shoulder, and there are houses all along the street
and every curtain seems closed, and the sun is almost set

so everything is as gray as this fog, and there’s a tug
and a shift, and now it’s going for your belly, squealing,

and you’re telling it mom is going to be pissed, she saved
three months for this jacket, goose feathers, and it’s cold

as hell out here, and you flip that fucking dog onto its back,
and it’s kicking, its feet black, asphalt from the street skidding

away like sparks, and your fingers like teeth around its throat.

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