And they cast the man as the one
who gets brought down by dogs.
When he met the director,
the man said, "I'm the son of a veterinarian."
"I guess we should give you a speaking part."
So in the snow, behind the pines, with three
cameras on him, the man was brought down
by dogs, and instead of falling silently,
he was allowed to shout "no."
Despite the open air, his call was shrill.
Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice pinged
as if encased in metal.
The director, unnerved, instructed
the man to do the scene again.
"Try shouting 'why.' "
The man's cap was off.
Snow flew from the strands
of his hair. A dog chewed
on his forearm.
And he said, "Why."
Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice fell flat, muffled--
not by limb, not by nature, but as if covered by a blanket of wool,
like a child playing ghost in a winter living room.
The director took the man aside.
"What's wrong?"
The man had never seen a person die.
He'd never even seen a dog die, although
he'd seen plenty arranged in violence shortly
thereafter.
"Nothing," the man said.
"Die naturally this time."
"Alright."
On the third take, one of the dogs tore
into his cheek. The puncture was quick, clean.
"I want to die," the man said, "but not like this."
"Louder," the director said.
"I want to die but not like this."
"What was that?"
"I want to die but not like this."
The dogs lapped at his blood.
One of the camera men came in close.
The man went limp, hoping it would end
the take.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
And they cast the man as the one
who gets brought down by dogs.
When he met the director,
the man said, "I'm the son of a veterinarian."
"I guess we should give you a speaking part."
So in the snow, behind the pines, with three
cameras on him, the man was brought down
by dogs, and instead of falling silently,
he was allowed to shout "no."
Despite the open air, his call was shrill.
Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice pinged
as if encased in metal.
The director, unnerved, instructed
the man to do the scene again.
"Try shouting 'why.' "
The man's cap was off.
Snow flew from the strands
of his hair. A dog chewed
on his forearm.
And he said, "Why."
Despite his vessel of flesh, his voice fell flat, muffled--
not by limb, not by nature, but as if covered by a blanket of wool,
like a child playing ghost in a winter living room.
The director took the man aside.
"What's wrong?"
The man had never seen a person die.
He'd never even seen a dog die, although
he'd seen plenty arranged in violence shortly
thereafter.
"Nothing," the man said.
"Die naturally this time."
"Alright."
On the third take, one of the dogs tore
into his cheek. The puncture was quick, clean.
"I want to die," the man said, "but not like this."
"Louder," the director said.
"I want to die but not like this."
"What was that?"
"I want to die but not like this."
The dogs lapped at his blood.
One of the camera men came in close.
The man went limp, hoping it would end
the take.
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