White Dog

Imagine yourself 
as a sacred object — 
ravenous white dog,
pink tinged opening
to the Other.

Your open mouth.
Your stance above the plate
from which you feed, which is
the whole expanse.

You take all the offerings
as your due. Over time
you are used to absorbing
everything

and then suddenly
you are called on it.

No, you say, this is not
at all what I want, I want to
love the entire world.  I want 
to make it over and fill it 
with my love. All these

offerings, so particular, so
personal, I never asked for 
and I only take what
is given freely. 

You keep feeding and
wondering why no one thinks
you’re telling the truth.

It is possible they’ve heard it before,
of course.  It is possible 
they’ve run up against a dog like you
before — you look friendly enough
until they take you away
from your feeding
and the flow stops

and then you turn
despite your protestations
and your professed love of all

and you bite.  Admit it,
you bite. It’s what a starving dog
does no matter how much
it’s been fattened.  When you’re threatened
you bite and when you’re hungry
you bite and when you’re
no longer on top
or feel you’re being challenged
you bite,

and the bitten step back.
They know you.  
They know your bark and 
your bite,

and they know which one
to believe.