Little Surgical Devices (warning: graphic content)

“Good night, puppy.”

“Mommy? I have a question.”

“What is it?”

“Did they really hang dogs during the witch trials in Salem?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Daddy was practicing his ghost tour on me.”

“Mmm. I think maybe you should ask your father about that.”

“But I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Well,” I lie, “I don’t know if that’s true

but the important thing to remember

is it will never happen to you.”

“Will it happen to my friends?”


I think about the dog hanging

on a gate in that ghetto of New York City

whose body remained for days

right next a playground

as some sort of gang warning


and the puppy running

around a spit in Thailand

which appeared to have

his mother roasting on it

begging and then being fed

bits of her meat. Then, in Korea

the soup with little surgical devices

hiding in the meat, the broth


I say, “No, of course not.

Who would ever want to hurt a dog?

Now, stop being silly and get some sleep.”

Then I lie awake, remembering


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