Quills
Quills frail and sharp as straw rip through skin; the sound and feel like a sapling uprooted. The grip of pliers releases and a spine coated in a dark and sweaty varnish falls to the ground; there’s a small pile now: a bundle of twigs collected for kindling.
Faint whimpers are little clouds of mist unfurling into obsidian sky. I look at the dog’s pink nose and I can see the dark streak of another spine through her translucent skin; I imagine it digging deeper, catching walls of flesh like a barbed plug. My finger gently traces the line to a slight nub that sprouts like hair from a mole. Steel clamps lock around the spine. I grip my dog’s snout in a hand muzzle; I raise her head to the moon so arm runs parallel to arched body. I look like a man ready to gun the engine of a lawnmower. My pull is hard and fast; my path not quite straight or true: the thorned splinter rings every nerve like the clumsy hand of child running his fingers up the keys of a piano. I release my grip to let her howl be heard. It is an ageless lament, raw and base like the dry sobs of a man unused to crying.