Rabies, Bite Two

The second time, at five,
it was a cat.

I have no memory of this—
not like the dog,

which put the fear of God
of dogs in me

for years to come. I know
my Uncle C. J.

scoured the fields and barns
for days for fur

for carcass when nothing
could be found.

So, another round of shots
in the belly,

of screams and diehard tows
to the car,

of being held down on the steel
table like a soul

who saw no light at the end
of the tunnel,

who could not shake flesh
loose and be free

of all the teeth and needles
that pierced him

with unnameable, unwanted
vengeance and mercy

through and through.