I’m a dog with many dogs inside me.
They and I will do whatever it takes
to lick your toenails and if you paint them
shiny red or black, we’ll spend may lonely nights
rolling over on our backs, dreaming
that we are kindly chewing your feet
and nudging your heels with our snouts.
It doesn’t matter if you think we are ugly.
It doesn’t matter if you believe our fangs
are too short or too long, too white or too yellow.
It doesn’t matter if you don’t enjoy howling
under a full moon and barking at strangers.
We’ll keep on doing all that.
We’ll howl and bark at you too
and if you put us in a cage of silence,
we’ll bite its metal ‘til our gums bleed roses,
we’ll hit its fences with our famished bodies
and we’ll stop only when our bones sound
like pianos or vibraphones
while we are breaking them.
Do not let us in, do not feed us,
kick our heads if we are drinking water
from a puddle in your garden,
try to kill us with pistols, rifles
or with words like: “We can only
be friends,” “I’m not the one for you,”
“We are just too different,”
“You’re not my type,” “I was drunk,”
“That kiss wasn’t fun.”
We’ll sob, but we’ll come back
to leave footprints on your carpet,
to move our tails while bringing you
the painful mirror of our eyes.
Kiss other dogs in the mouth,
send other dogs to fight us,
put a huge, angry dog on your door,
hire a bunch of quick, vicious dogs
and let them loose when you’re not at home,
sleeping for hours or just taking a nap.
We’ll stare at your window from a nearby hill.
We’ll hide behind bushes.
We’ll learn how to climb trees like cats.
Many dogs can turn into men.
You can see them buying chocolates and cocktails,
inviting you to movies and ice cream,
so they can smell your breath or lick your lips
or lie close to your sandals.
And If you think you’re sacred,
they’ll go to church with you,
they’ll get you portraits of Virgin Mary,
and statues of saints. Suddenly,
you’ll find yourself on your knees,
as always, but not praying.
I’m all those dogs, darling,
I’m a dog full of dogs,
a sled pulled by dogs,
a lamb herded by dogs,
a savage cornered by wild dogs.
They and I took you to a bar on a balcony.
They and I had drinks with you.
They and I noticed that the city was
brighter and cooler, as if the sea
had been much closer than it is today.
They and I know the flavor of your tongue.
They and I still want to play and dig
between the mountains of your breasts.
Make me wear a muzzle and don’t take it away,
say that I should only open my mouth to eat,
look angrily or coldly at my hair and ribcages,
go away if I start to growl and whine.
Even badly hurt, hungry, thirsty, dirty,
giving my last drops of blood to fleas and ticks,
I’ll find a lap cleaner and warmer than yours.
David Horacio Rosales Rojas
