Revelry at Nineteen

A year after the fire took most of me,

after my back became blood soup,

and it seemed my lost beauty— 

when beauty was everything—

was a kind of sin,

the dogs found me in the barn—

three reddish ones, coyote-like 

with all-seeing eyes,

a thick-coated Alpine type, 

and a big poodle, 

her bouffant grown out. 

They circled me and sat,

turned their faces skyward

like upward pointed arrows,

and we howled

all morning, all afternoon, 

until hunger, cold, 

or maybe some unheard

whistle sent them home.

Whatever I’d suffered, 

they came to partake,

like sharing wine or meat. 

When the flames ate me, 

when I heard

the ravenous cackle

on my dying skin,

I stayed silent,

but that day, with those dogs,

once I’d started, it was all

I wanted—song

and speechless celebration.

It would be years 

before my words returned,

and I spoke again 

in a human tongue.

originally published in Anacapa Review