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Poetry || SubmissionsThe death of a poet's dogBy Karen Alkalay-Gut THE DEATH OF A POET'S DOG We never spoke— Oh sure he sang, and that was pure joy – but for 13 years we slept his snout against my head never leaving my side unless I sneezed, or began to make love, and then always with a look of disdain for my human failings. But there is no end to the enumeration of the private pleasures between animals the point is he gave me words— those nights we walked alone in the hollow grove, my thoughts honed on my loneliness, the leash tugging would remind me of a world outside. Or the times I left the house suddenly, slamming the door before that inquiring look (head cocked, ears primed for listening), I had to think—just for that second— of what I was weighing against staying with love. Karen Alkalay-Gut teaches Victorian poetry at Tel Aviv University but in her own poems prefers a more direct approach than the subjects of her academic concerns. She is "always interested" in reader reactions to her poetry and can be emailed to Karen Alkalay-Gut Previous Poems by Karen Alkalay-Gut at Ariga Of Israel and the Language Today's Situation
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