The Bitch

By Tommy Long

tHE bitch

By third year Ostara Maharaj

She had rolled over on her back to show her belly 

so the hands of the world would pet her 

as a sweet creature

instead of a bitch 

The pads of her paws facing the sky, 

she surrendered herself 

to be soft around the edges; 

to be sweet 

But to her surprise the hands were flawed and calloused; 

they beat her and marred her

leaving her fur matted and skin battered 

Somewhere between the strikings she wandered

Does the world still not love me like this?

I showed you my skin 

and my tongue rather than teeth 

paw pads up to the sky 

I whimpered and whined as your cold hands bruised my soft complexion tough

But even surrendered, belly-up, I am merely a bitch 

So now that the callousness of the world’s hands 

has sullied its stain onto one of its creatures

The bitch will no longer sit on her spine.

She will stand on the pads that once faced the sky 

now encased in a layer of thick skin 

baring canines, 

ears and tail erect

And when cruel hands come close to her soul, 

a low rumble will rise from her throat 

erupting into the baying sounds of a hound.