Poetry

Marilyn Johnson

Wild Dogs

I chose the one
the wild dog chose.
I chose the man with the wild dog.
He took my picture in the park
while the dog marked a big green turf
for us, her pack.
At night we ate in a corner of the kitchen,
the dog between us, panting.
She watched us
eat ribs and corn with our hands,
tear bread with our teeth.
Hunger charged everything.