Iowa Writes
DEBRA L. HUTCHISON Dear Dog
I am sorry that I cannot remember your name. I do remember that father tied a dead mallard to your neck. And for one full week in the spring of 1966 the duck became our dark shadow. A lesson. Explained to my sister and me. For killing. We had to break you. And I am sorry that I cannot remember if we did break you. Did we break you? I cannot recall. Did you stop? Or did you continue to kill the ducks in the yard? Did father shoot you? I cannot remember. I do remember you followed us down the narrow path to bring up our Holsteins every afternoon. And the meadowlarks on the telephone wire singing. Do you remember meadowlarks singing? I am sorry, in the beginning we would try not to look. Try not to look at the spoiled duck. Remember her dirty feathers and her bright triangled feet that left a crooked trail in the dirt? And remember her yellow family that lined behind her like a toy being pulled? Did you kill them too?
I am sorry that I cannot remember your name. I do remember that father tied a dead mallard to your neck. And for one full week in the spring of 1966 the duck became our dark shadow. A lesson. Explained to my sister and me. For killing. We had to break you. And I am sorry that I cannot remember if we did break you. Did we break you? I cannot recall. Did you stop? Or did you continue to kill the ducks in the yard? Did father shoot you? I cannot remember. I do remember you followed us down the narrow path to bring up our Holsteins every afternoon. And the meadowlarks on the telephone wire singing. Do you remember meadowlarks singing? I am sorry, in the beginning we would try not to look. Try not to look at the spoiled duck. Remember her dirty feathers and her bright triangled feet that left a crooked trail in the dirt? And remember her yellow family that lined behind her like a toy being pulled? Did you kill them too? I do remember we traveled together that week. To the milk house, the creek, the barn. Like shy friends. In the backyard we watched as you rested under the newly bloomed lilac trees. Remember the pale lilacs that wrapped around our faded green house? And remember the smell in the backyard that spring? The smell of death and lilacs. Dear dog, remember the lesson to break? Dear Dog, I am sorry. I have forgotten your name.
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About Iowa Writes
Since 2006, Iowa Writes has featured the work of Iowa-identified writers (whether they have Iowa roots or live here now) and work published by Iowa journals and publishers on The Daily Palette. Iowa Writes features poetry, fiction, or nonfiction twice a week on the Palette.
In November of 2008, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) designated Iowa City, Iowa, the world's third City of Literature, making the community part of the UNESCO Creative Cities Network.
Iowa City has joined Edinburgh, Scotland and Melbourne, Australia as UNESCO Cities of Literature.
Find out more about submitting by contacting iowa-writes@uiowa.edu
DEBRA L. HUTCHISON Debra L. Hutchison spent the first eighteen years of her life on a dairy farm outside of Hampton, Iowa. "Iowa has had a great deal of influence on my sensibilities as a poet," she says. She earned an MFA from Vermont College and currently teaches Critical Writing at Le Moyne College. |