Dog Songs

What can clean up the blood but blood off
these hands that will never dry?
How I’ve tried cutting rocks with a knife
for one drop—but strife, strife, strife
is my poison.

It’s dulled my knife.

Peace seems a myth as I strive to untie
the endless, bendless cross from my back.

Who can clean these blood-soaked hands
and forget the dog songs sung of me?

Grisly gaping, gnashing, howling—
who can sing a song about me
louder than the bad dog prowling
’round me with its endless yowling?

In comes a louder song.

Crashing cymbals.
Trumpets.
Gongs.

Bleeding over all my wrongs
and singing to them, “He belongs.”

Ps. 32