When he danced in the pit
where boys break boys
& those who survive
become men who break
men, when he soft-shoed,
boogalooed on the clipped grass,
we cheered for him. But back home,
back roads, backwoods, dirt
& Virginia pine, when he made
another thing dance—held it
on a lead while it reared
on hind legs, elevated to relevé,
while it strained shoulder & neck
against the leather strap—
when he unleashed it,
and it flew like a hurricane
at its mark, we howled
for the dogs. I howled
for the dogs. For the dogs
I had known, abandoned
in Brewerytown, in high weeds,
in the no-man’s land along
the freight line. Lolling tongues.
Scabrous flanks. Skin at neck
& chest peeled back, open
to red meat. Eyes watery
& vacant, as a purpose served,
as the eyes of boys, sitting
at their Monday-morning desks,
having broken other boys,
grasping for what they’d won
& finding it, in the bell-ring
of their minds, already lost.

Contributor Notes

Iain Haley Pollock is the author of two poetry collections, Spit Back a Boy, winner of the 2010 Cave Canem Poetry Prize, and Ghost, Like a Place, which was nominated for an NAACP Image Award. Individual poems have appeared in African American Review, American Poetry Review, The Baffler, and The New York Times Magazine, as well as in a number of anthologies. Pollock directs the MFA Program at Manhattanville College and lives in the Hudson Valley.