O spelunking stalagmite uvula avoider
the burgeoning repast of my vanquished clavicle
there are snowflakes, teeth, dinner dishes on the ventricular horizon
and recently I threw a stick that turned out to be
part of me
into the mouth of a dog
unfortunately the dog was not a retriever
but ate the stick instead
O the intra-canine darkness
the subpoodle intestinal cave-dwelling
I have lived inside the dog for weeks

we have smelled lampposts, buried bones
curled in the sunlight, licked ourselves
ostensibly for cleanliness
but we had other reasons really
we are like history
if history rolled in garbage and let its tongue hang out
history rolls in garbage and lets its tongue hang out
but I was just saying that in order to counter the ridiculousness
of living inside a dog
to make it seem connected with the really big issues

one day I got the dog to nose open
the doors of a telephone booth
and make a call to my mother
‘Living inside a dog is a symbol, Mother’,
it barked for me
‘Frank is that you?’ my mother said
‘It’s time you came home
there’s no more room in the kitchen
the dishes are beginning to think
they own the place
there’s even some got fresh with me
and a side plate insists on watching Jacques Cousteau
every night at eleven’
‘A symbol, Mom!’ the dog barked but all I could hear
was the clattering of plates and then a soup bowl
hung up the phone

the dog began to worry
it couldn’t understand what was happening
inside of it were voices
impulses towards new behaviours
no longer could the dog howl at joggers
and be serene
I tried to explain but
the dog became agitated
let itself catch
its own tail
only let go when I imitated roast beef

then a cell phone rang in the dark of the dog
what else had it eaten?
was I not alone?
I remembered my jacket pocket
they were calling me from work
why was my inbox piled higher than my out?
why had my To Do list been given a postal code?
‘I’m in a dog’, I told them
‘and I can’t get out’
they were sympathetic, suggested some kind of
dog-to-business interface
spoke of hiding my client list in a hunk of meat

‘Did I tell you my mother was surrounded by dishes?’
I said, ‘I have begun to worry
can no longer be serene’
‘We all have our personal kitchens’, they said
‘We all have our plates to bear
your services will no longer be required’
I wept into the dark standard-poodley night
but by morning I knew what I must do

in the brilliant before-school sun
my mother answered the door in her nightie
and the dog dashed between her legs
I would be fiercer than plates
would win the kitchen for my mother
‘Run, dog, run!’ I called
but as we crossed the living room
the dog began to question its inner voices
there was a warm fire in the hearth
a shoe invitingly overturned on the floor
the dog found peace on the rug
turned twice around and
lay down

‘Seek victory over dishes!’ I exhorted
‘A howling triumph over china’
but the dog would not move
for it had never been inside

my mother padded over to the dog
opened her mouth wide and
swallowed the dog whole

just then Frank my father came home
opened himself
a beer and began washing dishes
‘You know, Mother’, he said
‘something about you looks different
I think it is time we had a child’