Bartholomew Barker, Poet

When We Were Puppies

We’d play Ball in the Hall
where I’d throw down the corridor
and he’d run full blast
catch it on the bounce
claws skittering against hardwood
then slam into the closet
at the far end and trot
back proud and joyful

He bit me once but it was my fault
after a Sunday dinner of steak
and potatoes we were in the backyard
he was working a t-bone
freeing the last molecules of fat
I was looking for my pocketknife
then I saw it open and near his paw
I reached in— not wanting him to get cut

With barely a snarl
his canines broke the thin skin
on the back of my hand
it hurt — in every way
disbelief at the blood
anger following pain
but he didn’t hold a grudge
something I still envy

We played Ball in the Hall that very evening
my hand bandaged— his tongue loose and panting
the tennis ball soaked