The Sighthound
kennel clubbing memories: my
platinum chain with pedigree name
spiffed prissy and purebred poised
snout pout stares back through mirror smudge before
blowout, though I’m already punishingly desirable
like Coutts card cut cocaine.
judge, request a skull
Afghan Hound me for
flews? flawless
mandarin chin with scissor bite scrutable.
I’m born for this, bearing in turn
the years literally, litter by litter.
in the upper-downer comedown their
namelessly whelped crimson coats are
platonic ideals—numbers—on display between my
legs in the breeding repeating, all to replicate me:
my maltese blue-blood widow’s peak
domino grizzle, dapple that dabbles in
agouti unmasked that’s above all
valuable (woof).
I am present. momentarily. tongue
lolling doggish I fancy how it hurts
like a bitch, but each insemination
proves I’ve still got ‘it.’
Marco Visciolaccio is an author in Asheville, North Carolina. He edits Flash Fiction for French Broads Lit, a publication celebrating authors in Southern Appalachia. Site: visciolaccio.com
The Marbled Sigh 