DROWNING
- 4 hours ago
- 1 min read
By Peter Sullivan
Goya´s Black Paintings: a dark theatre
for the slippery breech birth
of everything abysmal.
A cataclysm of faces writhing
in thick impasto
against a coven-black background.
Then: the drowning dog.
It looks like a small ship labouring up
the steep curve of a towering wave, caught
in a sudden squall under sheets of dirty rain.
But then you make out the hopeful puzzle
on the dog's face as it struggles to keep
its head above the relentless tide.
You would not think when looking at its uplifted,
frightened but ever-hopeful gaze,
buoyant with such resilient grace,
that under the tsunami of sand
its legs were pedalling furiously.
Even as it begs its owner to stop flinging
shovelfuls of grit into its eyes, in order
to smother it in what must be the unwanted
pet dogs' communal burial pit.
You step outside. Relieved.
Finally breathe. Tread on dog shit.