Bitten

He dares me to love him. Sits on my feet
like a flea-bitten sphinx and turns

his head away. Double dog
dares me, triple cat dares as I stare

at the toothy stigmata of my palms
and think of the thin, sallow woman

in the pet store parking lot, all glad
to see him go. I thought hers

was the relief of philanthropy–a woman proud
when her Annies found their own pie-eyed

Warbuckses. But maybe it was the promise
of sleep, of safety. A night without alarm.

Did she curl up her hands tight around
the bite marks? Did she pull her collar

up, up to ward off teeth? He dares
me to love him, deaf as a post he dares

as his useless ears turn like the hands
of a man trying to conduct the radio’s

orchestra and I say I’ll do it as new blood
inches down my finger to his head, benedicte.