by Ben Starr

The dog knows his tiny onyx body is home to a multinational conglomerate of death, slowly boring for various ores and salted earth metals meant to erect a machine built to kill. Improbably small pickaxes pound away at marbled fat and ribbons of vigorous muscle. Microscopic palms wipe sooty brows leaden with a day’s morbid work. When we go for walks I can hear his cancer. The harmonic stomp of its cracked work boots. Shifts over for the day, dragging stained coveralls to the pub for pints of beer. Just one breath before it goes home to a wife run ragged by children more powerful than God.

Ben studied poetry in college and as part of the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Dishsoap Quarterly, Bending Genres, Maudlin House, Gone Lawn, SoFloPoJo and other journals. Find more of his work on X @benjaminstarr and at benstarrwrites.com.