Bitten My pack’s mouths full of teeth and talking. They ask me to learn their body language, how the hair stands up on their spines like a slope of pine trees, why their lips curl back like a scared kid fingering his brother’s pocket knife. In East Texas, two dogs attack a small girl, their bodies like angry bricks. Doctors say half her face is paralyzed. The next day I kneel down beside one of the outsiders, a wiry mutt shaking in the corner of the room, the hole in his side like a crawfish nest. He won’t look at me while I clean him. I want to believe he remembers my blood in his mouth, my scars and bright spots like stars constellating my skin. But maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s just that some dogs bite and some dogs don’t and some that don’t do when the right moment comes along, when the tension is hot and foggy, and our bodies are just flesh in the way. Sometimes I dream about just letting them fight. I stand back and watch the storm unfold, the meanest of them sitting beside me, and the little girl’s there too with her hand on the beast’s head, his tail wagging to the beat— we are all of us hunger.