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Dog Hair Diaries by Evana Bodiker

We spent the night scrubbing

the floors, eye to level with dust

encrusted baseboards waiting

to reveal decades of lead paint

beneath. The absence of some

thing, a problem uncountable,

still we had to count them

all. Parasitic how existence

is only an aspect of another

object. I made the god-shaped

hole myself, was not born

with one though I let it evolve

like the type everyone else

has lived silently with.

Hunting on my knees

for wiry black strands of dog

fur left to irritate our sinuses

and ingrain into painted

over mold in unventilated

rooms. Rooms with high

ceilings and cobwebs

trapezed corner to corner

the suspension so tightly

strung I have to pull it

back to me like an anchor

stuck in a bank. I would

live in a haunted house

if I wanted to live in

a haunted house. All

catalogable features

appearing during sleep,

tall doorframe mouths

aping Ionic columns,

sounds on the staircase

connected to a burrowed

closet, familiar visions

amorphous and darkly

reverberating though we

just rent here, we pass through

not unlike the college kids

younger and before us

who screamed when they

showed us the basement.

Still wanting to believe

in portals, those voids

shot through a tree trunk

revealing what exists on

the other side, not the same

as this side of course, both

sides a not-mirror of each

other, but knowing there are

simply things with holes

in them, a flaw in design

and cheaply threaded.


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