If dogs had names for us
Stephan Walke
If dogs had names for us
they would call the Anglican minister
by the lift of a leg—a defiant turn of the head
away from the rectory, its cracked foundation
dampened by their pungent greeting
The dogs all have the same name for the farmer
it is not a kind name, we won’t speak it here
but they shout it in succession on Thursdays
when eggs are delivered, and the offending stench
of pig and poultry invades the canine domain of broken
fences, half-assembled skidoos
and empty smoke shacks
The dogs have names for the streets as well
they write these names into fresh October snow
and the slow mud of spring, each small and empty roadway
a stitchwork thoroughfare of an ancient language
each name taking the untold memory of a prowling winter’s night
to conjure into meaning the geography of this quiet place
If the dogs had names for us, they would call the motherless child
not by bark or growl—they would call her name into morning sun
with a gently closed eyelid and the softest wrinkle of a damp nose
But the sweetest, most tender names the dogs have reserved
for our nameless—for the ones we call only by crass
phrases or pejorative, political assemblages
each of them has a name and the dogs know
some of these beast are three-legged, some have a limp,
some with different coloured eyes, and one with a coat
that was stolen from a wild sheep
these dogs have a name for each of our forsaken,
and they walk with them, wait with them
quietly biding their time with infinite patience
a love that moves like the softest of spring winds
they wait outside brick buildings
in temperatures that liquify propane,
turn diesel jelly and coat the rims of raven’s eyes with frost
these dogs chase the ambulance to the nursing station
wait by the dented, grey doors
they carry such precious names
on the tips of their tongues—names that mend
the cracks of the frailest bodies
they wait for just the right moment
to utter these peaceful names softly on wanting skin
against the chill of a cold and lonely wind.
