Not My Fault

I found a burned dog leg in our hearth.
How it got there, you and I both know;
I am sick with that fact. In fact

I’m sick with you and your whole
thirst for blood games. It does not
mean a thing that we did not know

that dog. It does not mean a thing
that I did not help you with your 
need and how you met it. All I know

is that here I am with a bit of bone
and hair fused to it and last night
this was in my arms with a squirm

and a tongue and you did not even cry
as I did when you took it from me
and took my knife and went out

to the yard to the flames. I stayed here
and sobbed. I had no part in this.
I am sick with your part in it. I am

sick that it may not be the last time
I will cry as you use my knife
on one more stray as if it were

your own. Now take this bone from me:
I have to go put the edge back on my blade,
the edge you took from me last night.