My dog is a slave.
When I see him,
Vacant eyes gazing lifelessly out a window,
Searching for something long past,
I can nearly see the formation of a tear.
He is loved, yet he is lonely
A whore, living on the terms of others to survive:
Caressed when I want to his touch on my hand,
Fed in accordance of my time rather than his hunger,
Told to be quiet when he speaks, made to believe he has nothing to say.
He has become an object,
Nothing more, nothing less,
Once proud, he has been stripped naked,
Of past,
Of dignity,
Of life.
Loved until he does something for himself:
Digging,
Howling,
Running,
All things that he is made to do,
Things he nature cries out for him to do,
The reason he has claws and strong hind legs,
Things he is now beat for.
Like an oppressed spouse, he is controlled,
Told when to speak,
How to feel,
How to live,
His weakness allows the even weaker to feel strength,
With oppression, the oppressors gain power,
A malignant game as old as any other,
My father loves him.
One way while everything else is another,
A member of the transatlantic slave trade,
An apple in the desert
Flowers at a funeral,
Displaced:
Belonging to a place rather than a people.
Deep in his eyes I can see he remembers,
A time when he was strong and those around him were weak,
He was untamed, unafraid
Having sole control of the night,
Striking fear in the souls of those who now strike him.
Near midnight,
When the moon is at its highest,
I can often hear a soft whimper,
His attempt to connect with his past with a diminished howl through a window.
Though soft, a sound of strength can still be heard,
For a moment, he is content to whimper,
To connect with those who came before him;
To belong.
He begins to grow and his teeth sharpen,
Tearing up carpet and destroying cabinetry,
He searches for a way out,
But finds none.
His relocation is short lived
Size diminishes and teeth retract as he is ushered into a cage
He has spoken too much.
