It sounds like you will compare the
throat with my dog. My lumpy throat which
projects my fat. You will compare my throat with the
dog dish that sits on tile, which is abandoned after you

fill it with a can. Aware of the meat which holds its
own, is flung back like hair, waiting to be gorged, waiting to be
sanctified, to be looped into the pit. This is my throat that is so
fat, that is hungry for television, that waits for the door to

crush the silence, when you come to my squatting corner, pull back my
hair and stuff my face in the bowl. This is the other dog that waits for the
scales to spin: I will catch the scales between my teeth and make for the
water, where I will become the weeds, lamina, where I will disturb the

monster of bottled music, where I will meet the other dog and we will
smell one another, and tussle for the lamina that orbits our ribs, where we will be
lavish game, and shots will ring out, and we lavish game will go galloping, and you can
gallop with us -- the three mongrels who run for meat, who have fat throats.

Seth McMillan
SETH McMILLAN is the editor of  SpaceBreather , an on-line arts and literary journal. He's had his poetry published in Shampoo, Tamafhyr Mountain, Apples and Oranges, and Foliate Oak. He has poetry coming in Snow Monkey, Unlikely Stories, and The Tin Lustre Mobile. He instructs yoga part-time. This is his first appearance in TAR.
The Adirondack Review