The guy on the podcast you listen to tells us he thinks he can rip a dog in half 

by the hinge of its jaw. His brute strength 

and predator instincts will give him the strength of a thousand men, 

he says. I look at my hands 

on my lap and yours on the steering wheel, 

purple press-on nails,

olivine ring, 

beaded bracelets strung like stained glass 

in a chapel. The puppy we walk by 

lunges at your skirt,

and for a second 

I wait for the curl of your fingers in his mouth, 

for the pull, 

the brute force. 

He bites down to the knuckle bone.

We walk home with our hands loosely intertwined, close enough to feel the absent 

hum of one thousand men 

pulsing 

in the underside of your wrist, 

just under the beading.