by Tom Matthews
Close-up of a suture held in a pair of forceps. / Encyclopædia Britannica ImageQuest.
A dog bit me once. And dragged me on the ground. Scraping skin against asphalt. And they all asked, “Well, whose fault was this?” Surely not the dog’s. He was guarding his territory. He was in the right, in his head. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I felt his sharp white teeth dig into my leg. The stitches healed the holes. And as I think of that dog tonight, I can’t help but sympathize with it, for it was brave in a moment of danger. And to this day I am fond of dogs, even after feeling the deep bite of that Rottweiler’s teeth.
And you’ve shown me your teeth many a time: laughing, crying, or singing in rhyme. I come knocking at your door just to see it once more. Will you open up and present it to me? Or sink them in and scrape my skin across asphalt for whose fault none other than my own, for I, and the stitches, will reap what I have sown.
Contributing Editor, Thomas Matthews, is a Senior at Clark University where he majors in English, specializing in Creative Writing and Journalism.
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Photo credit: Web. 15 Sep 2015. http://quest.eb.com/search/132_1273072/1/132_1273072/cite