Feeding the Hounds

On Cato Lane, a pot of bluefish ghosts a low boil.

Simmer and mist, a pre-thunder rumbling

till the bones come clean as whitened souls.

By hand, she lifts the filigree of spine, ravels

loose the symmetry of flesh from rib, works

warm fish into dry kibble. The kitchen’s wreathed

in fog; it smells oddly like supper. Hounds clamor

and leap as she walks out to feed them. A phone

rings on in the empty kitchen. Miles off, another farm,

the vet will draw the dose, the good brown horse

will go down slowly, knees and hocks folding,

white petals of apple scattering, chickens thrumming

in his ears, the low hum of sleep approaching,

and the sky going somewhere unexpected.