I hope it's dead.
The way it spits and foams
and drags its pure white
form against the fence.

I left for breath
but it stays with me,
keeping pace with hopes
to crawl and live and be.

But they do not deny
the blood from gaping mouth.
My sister and my brother
are behind to watch, uncouth.

It will not let them near
enough to bludgeon to
near-nothing like Heaven
and cries for what it cannot do.

They are twisted,
his innards, and they mesh
further. An hour, not two.
I hope it's dead. God, how I wish.