We hadn’t known she could scream.
Shred threads of a nylon muzzle,
simply out of fear. Two techs holding her
down, holding her, rigid, to their chest,
against her will, against instinct—
just to clip her nails. And it might be
funny if you didn’t knew her,
thought her a drama queen, spoiled
by a couple of mushy hearted rescuers,
but having to watch, agency and choice
snatched from her faster than she would
have taken cheese were it from trusted hands,
70 pounds of vigilant muscle, ridge-backed
fur, any other day eager to deploy teeth and
claw and ferocity against another animal—
we could not hold it together. And I think
of our daughter, three years old and pale faced,
trembling on the back of a surgical table, how
when the hose, the mask, came close,
she would not let them put it on, and
they told us to restrain her. How still she laid after,
like we'd killed her, confused when she woke
in a oversized crib because, mommy,
wasn't she too old for bars? And our other child
14, having just been released from the hospital
after threatening to cut her wrists, panicking
over tourniquet and needle, asking me
to hold her arm down, begging me not to, solely
so blood could be drawn. Solely to keep her alive.
And if you’ve ever been there, tearing
a loved one away from their sense of safety,
you know the way betrayal sounds, rips though
skull and bone, soft tissue, the ability to feel
honest again, and though they all had come
to you after—old dog, baby, and teen—
laying their exhaustion against you while you
stroked their hair until they slept, other hand
on their sternum, feeling its rise and fall,
whispering it hadn’t hurt, you felt that night
closing over your face, your years, mummifying
how you had wrapped them within themselves,
commanded they ignore what they'd learned
of survival, claiming you weren’t culpable,
you didn’t have a choice, and wasn’t it
for their own good? It was, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright September 28, 2024, all rights reserved
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse
