What the End Was Like

by Alan Shapiro

There was howling somewhere hard to pinpoint like a penned
dog in a pen no bigger than a closet pacing and howling all day
every day, from all directions howling so when it sometimes did
stop, never for long (your hand again unthinkingly by habit
on my shoulder, or mine on yours) the sudden stark uneasy
quiet grew even more unbearable because we spent it listening
for the barking to return, as it would, and did, and when it didn’t
finally all the dog would do was cower at our approach, its hackles up,
snout on paws, lips retracted slightly, trembling just enough
for us to see the fang tips, to hear the growling low and faint
and frighteningly softer than a purr. White cur of our last days
blue ice of eyes that couldn’t tell freedom from backed-into
corner, danger from offered hand, catcall from cooing
“come on now, baby, what’s wrong now, baby, shhhh.”