Poem 318 ± April 17, 2016

Renée E. D’Aoust
If Sappho Owned a Dog

but I to you of a white goat, not goat, but brown hound, her arms drop, her knees buckle, she collapses, the hound stands next to her, wagging in a frenzy, licking her face, squeaking, squeaking. Nogod appears. One drop of water—Truffle licks it. Another drop of water—Truffle licks it. And the rain comes down. The killer of rabbits sits on his haunches. He licks the tears, the rain, the waterfall. All burst.


Renee D'AoustRenée E. D’Aoust’s first book, Body of a Dancer (Etruscan Press, 2011) was a ForeWord Reviews “Book of the Year” finalist (memoir category). For more information, please follow Renée @idahobuzzy and visit her website, reneedaoust.com.

This poem appared in Rhino and in the anthology Animal Companions, Animal Doctors, Animal People, Hilde Weisert and Elizabeth Arnold Stone, editors (Ontario Veterinary College).