Day 327: The Puppy Machine

I surprised my bride with a puppy for her birthday. Her name is Whimsy.

Today’s poem is definitely inspired by her and ran a little longer than usual.

The Puppy Machine

Day 225 & 227; Untitled & I Breathed for a Dragon

Overdue update. I’ve had a lot on my plate these last few days. I started a new job as a Veterinary Technician (in training) and I’ve been sick. Fun way to jump into a major life change, but go big or go home, right?

Both of these poems were inspired by one of our patients, a Chinese Water dragon. The second poem is closer to what the first poem was meant to be. It’s funny how we can think of something as unfinished then look back and be like “oh hey, that didn’t turn out half bad just as it is.”

Untitled

I Breathed for a Dragon

Day 111: Bug Bite

Several days ago I thought I’d managed to get a very fine cut on the base of my thumb. Then I thought I had a bit of dead skin hanging from it and went to snip it free so the cut wouldn’t widen. It wasn’t a piece of dead skin. It was a swelling. It stung to the touch and I thought it must be an ingrown hair, or very odd, some kind of zit (I’ve never had either on my hand).

A day later it had doubled in size and a poke accidentally burst it. Along with all the nasty that came out was a small brown needle-like thing that might have been a hair, a stinger, or part of a proboscis broken off when some bug took a nibble out of me. The base of my thumb swelled up red, and over the course of the day a vein of redness spread up the length of my arm.

I’ve seen it all taken care of and all that’s left now is a red, waxy pucker at the original bite-site. As gross as this whole process has been it’s also been somewhat fascinating. What exactly was going on inside my body? What bit me? What was left behind? How did my immune system respond?

Whatever the case, I’m pretty sure whatever but me is dead now. Hope I tasted good, you creepy little jerk.

Bug Bite

Day 169: The Osprey’s Identity

We have an osprey who’s territory overlaps the land next to our home. Every now and then we spot him hunting or surveying his domain from a branch or light pole. Gorgeous raptors. They have a crest of feathers on their head and dark markings around their eyes, which got me thinking about crowns and masks and identity. I doubt the osprey much cares what we think about who he is, but what paradoxes do we carry in our own identities and why?

The Osprey’s Identity