The Newer Profession

My father had his faults, as do they all, but

one sunny day I forgave them, when half his arm

was hidden in the jaws of the dog, that rascal

who'd stolen a lambchop bone and now was choking.

My father was trying to get his thick hairy fingers

around the treacherous T-shaped thing that was

killing the animal with eyes knowing nothing

of death but all about pain.

My father's eyes were different;  they knew

the whole story, knew the writhing animal

would not live but for him;  my God, but

he loved that dog more than his own skeletal cache.

My father had wanted to be a doctor,

but medical school wouldn't admit him;

it was rumored that at twenty-six he'd suffered

a mild infarction;   he became a writer instead,

dealing in souls rather than bodies.

But that day, one hand grasping thick canine fur,

other down a craw, he seemed to fulfill his first calling,

mucus, blood and spittle spilling from the animal maw

mingling with my father's tears of joy, of fear.

The dog licked that slimy trembling hand,

the murder weapon was safely trashed, and then,

two decades later, my father's earthly time ran out.

I came to imagined him with arms outstretched like that

famous white-cloaked saint, and bending regularly over

every winged or finned or furred creature,  scrupulously

accounting for each and every bone.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 11 29 08