Holy Beast
       

Once I was part of a holy beast, I was.
I was a dog, a bear, a horse.
I was the leader and the dragging-led.

My fur was both sleek and shaggy, black and white.
I was as tall as a stallion, long-maned,
yet bony, as deep withered as a dog.

I barked and I whinnied, I growled.
I cantered and I loped, I lumbered.

This was before I was born, before I slid
from the cave, where I was hailed
then demeaned for my unnatural cries.

I rose up—red dog spinning rain, swirling
band of pink. At last they knew me in my corner.
The words they gave left. I barked again.

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Copyright © 2019 Bertha Rogers All rights reserved
from Wild, Again
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission