I Be Dog

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I Be Dog
By Missy Dione McEwen

My sister is quite feral
now that I think about it --
the way (when she is mad) she bends
her index finger at the middle,
puts it into her mouth, then bites
down on it, almost snarling.
She even stamps her flat feet.

Our father says, "Where did she
get that?"

And I know she didn't learn
it from him (our father) who likes
to think that he is well-educated --
he uses words like "erstwhile" and "pulchritude."
I wonder what his "buddies"
have to say about that.
I bet they say, "Erstwhile, Jim?"

Our father says to our mother:
"She gets it from you!"
And our mother barks:
"Naw, you the crazy one."

But I agree with our father.
Our mother, she wrung the necks
of chickens and fed the hogs.
She says: "I be dog!"

When she is mad, she flies
at us, like a bull, snorting; she balls
her fists and punches hard, eyes
screwed up -- bewitched; we are
mosquitoes under her heavy hand.