Strays

Published in League of Canadian Poets Fresh Voices

In the dry Serbian summer,

I submerge myself in water

up to my nose.

The stray dogs watch me,

wait patiently

for my alligator crawl

back to shore.

They launch their flea-ridden bodies 

up towards my ice cream 

and chase each other 

round and round 

to the point of exhaustion. 

I do not meet their eyes. 

At the cottage,

we kids eat dinner first, 

grab at the centre of 

the bread loaf

and at the biggest tomato chunks, 

leave the uneven pieces of onion for the adults,  

wash it all down with water 

cooled in the spidery basement cellar. 

I place any scraps 

into a small bag, 

pretend to take them out 

to the large metal garbage container. 

I throw them to the strays,

their matted fur, 

peculiar ears. 

I do not approach them. 

In the evening, 

the kid coalition plays 

hide and seek,

offer our ankles to the mosquitoes 

become too good at hiding 

no better at seeking, 

let the soft bark and trot of the strays 

nudge us home. 

I do not pet them. 

As I walk,

swinging my arms, 

forward

back 

forward 

back 

I feel teeth around my hand, 

resting for an eternal moment, 

then released without care,

delicate skin still intact.  

In the middle of the hot, dry night 

I awake to strays

howling on the front steps

and a smokiness that 

permeates their stares. 

Across the water, the trees glow 

tangerine, rampant red. 

I gather the strays around, 

and we watch the flames devour

the land, with the lake as our armour.