Because Everything is Metaphor

I am watching my farm dog

 limp and 

trip 
   
     on stairs, 

tail between her legs,

where bone and tendon are pressed against 

a thinning 

coat and skin, 

            so obvious, you can see it,

          feel it, 

run a hand over
her atrophied muscle 

and will,

both front paws 

wrapped in gauze and red tape, 

padding to replace 

the natural toes

which seem 
to have 	been  

eaten 	    away,

some parasite or another having taken 

advantage 

of a weak            
          
              and 	    lonely 

immune system.

There is no pill to cure it. 

There is no procedure
to fix a body 

attacking itself, 

cell against angry

cell, 

vein against 

dying 

vein, 	against lung

and a withering heart,

exsanguinating, 


emptying itself 


of mercy. 

Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright November 2024