when a canine’s teeth cut
through his throat, another days later
in a fight so ugly, so brutal, that
little was left of him in the end
but the stench of his blood.
Down to eight, they tightened the circle further still.
The men came out for their breaks to watch the fights,
hollering from the far side of the chain-link fence,
laughing together, one good time.
Another of her pack went down, felled by
a brindled son of a bitch who
wouldn’t stop biting and chewing and tearing
even after the dog
had long stopped fighting.
And then there were only seven.
In the night, between fights, her pack lay there looking out
at the glowing eyes of their enemies. She thought,
We’re going to die if we stay here much longer.
She thought, It is time for a sudden move.
It’s time for a radical plan.
It is time for me to do something
for them.
Because there was no security but the dogs
nobody saw her change, no one saw her at all
till the late shift was leaving, one fellow glancing into the cage
saw a lady
lying there amid the dogs, naked, her eyes closed,
her blonde hair fanning out
like a halo of gold. The six others
surrounded her, facing the world.
There were shouts, a chivalrous rescue began,
as the men distracted the dogs with hoots and yells,
the one who first spotted her
rushed in to scoop her up in his arms.
Her pack watched through the fence as the man carried her off.
She wasn’t escaping. She wasn’t running away.
They knew this.
But in their distraction they didn’t see
the coming attack
as the old, burnt curs,
smelling a weakness, struck quick.
She heard the distant chaos.
She heard the barking of her boys.
She heard the last yelp as one went down.
And as Annie was carried away
down the red dirt road
toward an uncertain destination
she thought to herself,
Now we are six.
In the breezy San Pedro night
the cigarette is crushed out.
This is the tough part for any therapist,
letting go in the heat of the moment.
She closes her eyes and
puts her memories on a shelf.
There is much to be done,
there is some serious judgment
coming down.
XXII
Just before the first light
a sea of restless dogs
rushes along the edge
of the chain-link fence
impatient and nosing forward for
the wet ground meat and dry meal
generously shoveled out
by a one-eyed one-armed man.
book four
Like dogs in Mexico,
furless, sore, misshapen,
arrives from laborious nowhere
Agony.
DENISE LEVERTOV
Be kind, for everyone you meet
is fighting a hard battle.
PLATO
I
Baron’s up and barking,
Sasha nips at heels, herding.
The bunker’s rousted hounds slip out of sleeping
storerooms and run together to the open space.
Baron hasn’t slept well for weeks,
the missing dogs
and weight of the future
churning through his mind.
Memories of Lark stalked him too
as he ran through lessons learned over years
spent watching scrappy souls
as they were forged together
into the tightest of packs.
But now is Baron’s time,
thinks Baron. He’s hoping the rest of them
are ready to follow this dream,
a plan born from long, insomniac nights
spent sifting through the remnants of Lark’s old plan.
Why did Lark send the girl to the pound?
And then send Bone with her?
Finally Baron reached a place
where the pieces came together.
He saw civilization crumble before him,
and he smiled.
He leaps onto the crate and looks into their attentive eyes.
Sasha climbs up behind him,
her hand on his shoulder, bringing him strength.
When Baron first came here on his mission for Lark,
Ray suspected nothing,
he simply needed men like Baron.
So Baron slept and ran and sparred with the pack, taking
mental notes, looking for the chinks in the armor
that Lark and his pack could exploit.
Then, the night Ray
sent Sasha to him,
when she bit his chest and he slid inside her,
there was something in their violence together
that bled years of barbed anger from his bones.
When it was over he lay there
breathing,
wondering,
finally asking,
“Is it always like that?”
She turned to look at him, exhausted,
her eyes showing something close to fear.
“It’s never like that.”
In that moment, everything
was recalibrated.
Call him a Judas if you want
but he did it for reasons
much older than silver.
Baron raises his hands.
“This is the time, this is when we plant the seeds of the future.
We are evolving this pack, we are evolving the plan,
we have ambitions.” He steps forward and raises his voice,
almost shouting now. “Ambitions beyond
what any pack has ever dreamed.
We are going to reshape the world.”
He knows as the words leave his lips that it’s working,
his passion is moving like a fever through the pack.
Baron changes gear, putting his shoulder
against his argument and pushing it forward as great leaders always do
sometimes to great ends,
other times simply to the end.
“We will own this city.
We will be its soul and it will work for us.
We will drink from it. We will savor it.
It is going to be profound,
it is going to be delicious.”
Sasha steps forward and barks out orders,
they pass out pictures of Ray,
of Lark, of the girl.
Tighten the screws.
Rewards are mentioned,
greater goals stated,
men start heading out as instructed
their noses filled with the scent of the hunt.
Sasha will lead one team,
seeking jobs as delivery men for any ser vice,
just get a truck, get a uniform, get a job.
Get to the front door, look at faces,
read the mail, know the town.
Find them, finish them off.
Baron is going
to meet a man named Potter
a lawyer in the city
who will provide some critical ground cover.
The rest Sasha sends down
to the dog pound,
in one form or another.
II
Asher runs after a golden ball, smiling.
The green of the lawn is his universe.
A man passing by leans over
and picks up the loose ball.
/> Alice jumps up from her bench.
“Hey, that’s my son’s.”
“Yes, sorry,” says Venable, smiling
with exquisite politeness. “I must say,
he is a lovely, lovely boy.”
Peabody comes home from work
driving his new car which is something of a misnomer
since the car’s actually just as used
as he’s been feeling of late.
The house is surprisingly dark as he limps in.
“Honey?” Nothing.
His heart stops.
“Alice!” he yells again.
Nothing.
A vast fear yawns in his belly.
But then he hears Asher’s cry, “Daddy!”
Such relief.
“We’re here!”
They’re in back, they’re in the back,
he reassures himself as he heads through the kitchen
thinking “we never hang out back here—”
then, stepping through the sliding door into the backyard,
he stops short to find
he has guests.
Sitting on a fat man’s lap, Asher is smiling,
holding his golden ball.
A short man in a dandy suit sits across from his wife
as two other men, handsome and fit,
lean back in the patio chairs.
Alice is up. “Honey, this is Mr. Venable.
We met in the park today.”
And Peabody suddenly feels a sense of bewildering clarity
hitting him like a cannonball
as the dandy opens his mouth.
“Yes, I was surprised when I heard Alice
was married to the same Detective Peabody
I had been doing some work with,” he lisps, then
rises to offer his hand.
In the moment of reaching out
Peabody intuitively pushes his anger and fear aside
figuring for the moment the best thing to do
is roll along, keep it low.
He shakes Venable’s hand warmly.
“Yes, of course. Mr. Venable, it’s nice to finally meet you.”
III
Maria works the bar, tight shirt, impatient eyes,
always looking
for the ones who are strong and lost.
She keeps them there, late, talking.
She calls Lark and leaves messages on his cell.
He comes in if she’s kept a lost one
there past closing, drinking, talking.
“You gotta meet my friend,” she says.
It’s been working, the pack is growing,
steady and strong,
the plan is a plan.
Lark comes in early tonight,
no reason to be there except
back home Bonnie had gone down just after eight
lulled by pills and wine,
asleep on a pile of magazines,
so he headed out to check on things.
Now Lark’s sitting at the bar listening to
a band playing covers of old Chicago tunes
in Spanish. Sheecago.
Songs from his FM youth
weave in and out of translation,
Spanish to English and back again,
like when he was a kid and his father drove him
across acres of avocado farms
and Lark would fiddle with the radio,
up and down the dial,
mariachi to rock, Sinatra to salsa, two cultures
swimming together in the airwaves,
“Twenty Cinco o Seis” to
Four.
Maria, wiping her hands on the towel, says,
“A guy came in earlier tonight, wanted to pay
with the coin he got from A.A.,
his anniversary award.”
“Sounds like he needed a drink.”
“Yeah.” She smiles, holding up the coin. “I gave him one.”
Lark shakes his head, there are so many ways
to get lost in this town.
“I’m going for a smoke,” she says. “Come out with me.”
The evening is cool for LA. There’s been talk of rain.
Maria breathes in deep, flicks her smoke,
looks him in the eye. “So, Bunny says you want a new van?”
“Yeah, we’re going to need a bigger one. Maybe two.”
“Jesus, Lark, how big are you gonna make this thing?”
“I dunno, Maria. Big enough to fight another pack.”
She smokes,
nodding, impatient, a little surprised,
a little pissed.
“A whole ’nother pack?” she says, adding, “there’s another fucking pack?”
Lark nods. “Honestly, Maria, there are probably dozens.
Who knows? I don’t. But the good news is
we only want to fight one of them.”
“So, how big is this one we’re going to fight?” she asks.
“I have no idea.”
Maria picks a piece of stray tobacco from her tongue,
“Well fuck the van then, get us a bus.”
Lark smiles.
Inside the bar, it’s “Sabado
en la Plaza” being sung earnestly
by the giant lead singer. Sangria flows,
margaritas flow, beer flows.
Lark dryly surveys the scene
but everyone seems secure here, no one
to chip off the wall and drop into the mix.
He’s almost ready to go but Maria
puts her hand on his and says,
“Come back to the house with me,
I want to show you something.”
Bunny cleans glasses
bops his head along to the music.
Lark agrees to wait and orders
another ginger ale.
Closing time, his car
follows hers, left on Beverly, all the way out.
They pull up at the house
where everyone is asleep.
She whispers something in Bunny’s ear
and he scurries up and out of sight.
“What did you tell him?” asks Lark,
following as she wanders through the foyer
up into the master bedroom.
“I told him to get some sleep,” says Maria,
lighting a candle on the mantel.
“So, what did you want to show me?” asks Lark,
sitting on the corner of her bed.
She turns and stands
less than an inch from his face.
She pulls her dress off over her head.
He looks into her eyes
as she runs her fingers
through his dark hair.
The room resonates with heartbeats.
He takes her hand.
“I’d love to. But, Maria, if I was with you here,” he says, “right now,”
he collects his thoughts, chooses his words carefully.
“If I took this,” he runs his hand along her bare back,
“believe me, we’d lose everything. It would all slip away.”
“How do you know?” Her voice carries a slight ache.
“Maria, right now that’s about all I do know.”
Lark gets up, touches her chin and meets
her gaze. It’s dark and tough in there.
“You are so strong. So wise.
So different than the girl I met in the store.”
He kisses her forehead. “And I’ve already given you more than
anybody ever could.”
He watches as the look in her eyes changes,
the darkness passing to something slightly more bemused.
He sees that Maria’s prodding the world, looking for
what will bite and what will tear.
She’s putting them all through their paces,
flexing her muscles,
testing her strength.
Lark sees it all and
feels the relief,
at least it’s not love.
Putting on his jacket, he
steps out the screen door to the
fresh air of freedom, then
drives off to a woman across town
who feeds him kibbles and bits.
Satisfaction is a strange thing,
found in odd corners.
The last thing he hears
as he leaves the house that night
is Maria barking
for Bunny love.
IV
Anthony wakes to find her arms are wrapped around him
he’s thinking that there’s just a little more
tension in her hold
than one would expect
from simple affection.
She’s holding him the way
one holds a trunk full of love letters
when your ship has been sunk
and the current is pulling you out.
He rests his lips
on her cheek
on her eyebrow and on the softness
beneath her neck.
It is another day.
In the kitchen he notices
a line of ants crossing over to the sink
He remembers a story his judo teacher once told him
about how the roots of man began long ago
with us lying on our sides, in our stupid prehistoric way,
watching with a dawning concentration
as the ants swarmed in song line threads
across the bleached desert earth
while, across seas and valleys,
other men stood looking up
their attentive eyes following the bees that murmured
around the honeycomb.
We mimicked their organization,
we copied their discipline
we got up from the ground, dusted ourselves off,
and made our own wars
so that our greatest battles are
only shadows
looming up over time’s expanse,
all born from the tiniest of ancient conflicts:
Ant versus ant.
Bee versus bee.
And now
a dogcatcher
late for work.
There have been more new guys,
it’s a tough and lean and silent crew.
They train fast and take off on their own runs,
returning with their kennel trucks brimming over
and humming with the panting
of quiet and contented canines.
Anthony’s one of the few now
who’s been around long enough
to sense something’s not quite right.
But he can’t put a nose to it.