A skinny dog came at me today,
barking to protect her young
and I was glad.
Glad because in Haiti dogs do not bark by day;
They lay in half-dead slumber
to conserve the will to live.
They are all one breed, it seems,
Inbred mutts
fighting loveless lives.
Their eyes reflect the pain, the hunger, the fear.

I saw a brood of puppies once
so small and frail
they seemed like fragile birds.
They screamed the cries of frightened children
when I bent to touch one,
running headlong into tangled thistle.
And I cried
that they should shun my touch
and like their human counterparts
seek shelter under barbs.

People pelt strays with sharp stones, here
Tap-Tap drivers do not slow.
For dogs serve no purpose
except to remind the people of what their own hunger
looks like.

At night,
the cries are not the bark of family pets
but of the killer, hunter pack
turning on itself.
Survival is not for the weak,
and early morning often finds their numbers well diminished.

Yes, a skinny dog came at me today
and I was glad.
Glad for its courage,
Glad for its energy,
Glad for the sense of normalcy
that restored my hope
that Haiti, too, shall live.

Port-au- Prince, Haiti
April 1999