Away from the palms
Finally the man became a dog, and his wife became bored.
Your coat is coarse and the sounds you make…
She put him in her car, drove past where palm fronds ended until the sky became the clotted cream of midwestern winter. The husband resisted flapping his ears in the highway wind. My pride is dogged, he laughed, falling asleep in the woman’s lap.
Further went the wife, westward, to the only landlocked state she could think of. She imaged it a pound, sprawling, barred.
She went to the Governor.
Governor I’ve come to surrender my husband.
The Governor looked for a man who wasn’t there.
The dog curled up in a square of sun.
He was a dog of a man, the wife pointed. But now he’s a man of a dog. Put him before a judge. Let a judge decide which is worse.
The judge wore a powdered wig and decreed: Guilty, all charges, no chance of parole. Justice is dogged.
Driving back from where she came, the woman ate her hands. Fingers first, then thumbs. Her palm she saved for when she reached the palm trees of her own state, for symmetry. Then she went to the wrists.
Steering into the driveway with her elbows, she leaned forward, weeping.
She still had so many things to get rid of.