Lucy

By Daniel Brennan

I have a recurring dream in which
my father’s dog Lucy, a sixty-eight pound
German Shepard, sinks her teeth
into my face. Only a moment before,
her tongue is salvaging every
drop of salt from my skin, my arms
wrapped gently around her.
The next, her canines
rend flesh from bone and my skull
is filled with unmappable fireworks
and my father
is a clocktower sounding in the dark
that we’re well past time and
everywhere I go the people I love have
forgotten my name.
But in some dreams, Lucy –
all rattled limbs and anxious pleasure –
simply curls in my lap, a child
seeking nothing more than another
warm body to hold them when night descends.
I have a dream where I let someone in;
I allow him to trace my lips with his tongue,
salvage my exposed flesh, offering up
my throat, my cheek, every vulnerable
square inch my body possesses. I curl
into his lap, my canines dulled to sand
by the passing years, a whimper shaking
my limbs as his breath presses against me.
In every dream, I allow their shape,
hound or man, proximity
to the point of danger. Night comes
again and again, my bones restless
in the negative space, my empty bed.
I have a dream and the dream
begets another dream, endless scenes
where bloodbath and intimacy are
interchangeable truths. Tonight,
I curl into myself, alone, unsure
if I’m brave enough to risk
the bite, the tooth and claw,
that comes with bringing them close.

—

About Author

Daniel Brennan (he/him) is a queer writer and coffee devotee from New York, where he lives in an apartment being slowly overtaken by stacks of books. His work has appeared in numerous publications, including Passengers Journal, The Banyan Review, Birdcoat Quarterly, Sky Island Journal, and Hive Avenue. 

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Twitter/Instagram: @dannyjbrennan