When Prozac Doesn't Work

When Prozac Doesn’t Work

A black wolf is at my back. 
My brain wrenches;
I go counter-intuitive:

I slow my pace. He slows his.
Then – he puts his front paws
on my shoulder blades.
I feel his claws dig in, 
but not too deep.
On the back of my neck
I feel the heat of his panting
For the next few steps
we dance together in an unholy conga
with a slow-crawl beat.

Somewhere near I hear a dog bark,
then growl.
I look.
A massive, golden-brown mastiff
stands mighty on the hill
with muscles braced and teeth bared –
encapsulated ecstasy.
He is here to rescue me.
He is picking a fight with the wolf.

The wolf digs his claws in deeper,
then yanks them from my back. 

He runs, fast, toward the mastiff. 
I just stand there weeping,
watching the wolf tear apart
my canine knight in capsule armor.

Cynthia Pitman

I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. I have recently had poetry published in Vita BrevisPostcard Poems and ProseRight Hand PointingEkphrastic ReviewLiterary Yard, Amethyst ReviewAdelaide Literary Magazine, Three Line Poetry, Leaves of Ink, Third Wednesday, and Mused. I have had fiction published in Red Fez, Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art and Dual Coast Magazine. My first poetry collection, The White Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.

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