Lyssa

I am in that gushing taste of rust

and haemoglobin. The first hound

tore him down of its own accord;

the others came afterwards, lapped

at the spreading pool that steamed

and congealed, and their eyes glazed

with a reddish film as I entered them.

 

That was when the frenzy descended,

and dogs that would have wheedled

and cringed, had their master raised

his hand, transformed in an instant

into a flurry of foam-flecked teeth

as he turned tail in a bulging gush

of entrails. It's not that I mind

men looking with lascivious eyes:

it's when they do it casually, after

killing. The dogs sidle, yelp, rip.

My hair melts, swirls, turns to butterflies.

 

Poem by Giles Watson, 2013

Done