The American Journal of Poetry
"Strong Rx Medicine"®


Steve Christopher

Feed Him



I thought that dog was going to explode.
She tied it to the maple outback, fed it everything leftover,
Pasta Fagioli, Mooligniana, Mortadella, Pasta Peasele.
She over cooked as usual. War girl she was,
didn’t have anything she said. Came to the
land of milk and honey, streets paved with gold.
She’d see to it that everyone had more than enough.
The dog times ten. Why on earth did they bring
that poor thing home from Michelangelo’s flea market?
Mikey they called him. So late in the game too. So
many years past the point of we kids being around
to take good care of him.
He haunts me. Those sad, dark, marbled eyes, in that
doggy fat suit, stuff in, pressure gauge
in the red zone. I see it pop in my eye, fur flying,
guts in the tree, on my face. Oh merciful god,
give it a quiet heart attack.
She feeds the neighbors, the birds, the
rats, cats, possums, raccoons. And once Pop
let it slip that she had a bottle in Alex’s mouth
all the time. All four hundred plus pounds of him,
still at home. Words like that
stick to your brain like little rubber cement balls.
Words you weren’t meant to hear.
Feed him.



STEVE CHRISTOPHER retired as an airplane pilot to pursue songwriting in Nashville. His poems have appeared in 34th Parallel, Mas Tequilla, Paterson Literary Review, Enoia Review, Empirical Magazine and elsewhere.



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