Teeth Baby

The herd of gazelle charges
through my living room;
all snort and grunt and gallop and black
horns swaying above
white-panicked
eyes.
I can smell that cheetah
smell:
bad news
and spotted speed.
A small calf strays
in the back,
passed the coffee table,
towards the kitchen,
away from the crowded safety of the herd.
Halting hooves slip
on bare wooden floor
when a clawed
comet shoots terrible
orange across the green
rug by the black
couch and
drags the baby down.

Jaws crunch bleating
neck bones as
they slide through
the magazines,
beneath
the painting,
passed
the stereo and
slam the jamb
of the door to the hallway
where the herd
thunders down the stairs
and foams
into the street.

I was standing next
to the truck when
she said
“tumor”.
I held the keys in
my hand and
then
I didn’t.
How much of hell
can boil up
in one small skull?
His vision’s
shot-through now,
and no hair grows
in the lightning bolt
that scratches a
too-young
scalp.

Also the most-tender
get cut to pieces
in the mouthings
of the word.