Claire Booker

the feral dogs of moscow

smell which way the wind blows
have ferocious appetites
prefer rusks to bread, caviar to fish heads
know back-routes to the Kremlin
vote with their feet
are not prejudiced in any way
wear fur beautifully
set honey traps
scratch backs
lick the hand that feeds them
defecate off the beaten track
have perfected the opening of Metro doors
eyeball the idle rich in cafés
hang out at nightclubs and store openings
are stabbed, gassed, drowned, shot
sleep it off
roll in their own mange
let forests prowl in their heads
never forget what the moon is for
grin with wolves’ teeth
kill rats, rivals, the underdog
are the terrible brainchild of Baba Yaga

“I am not prejudiced in any way,” Vladimir Putin. Baba Yaga is a malign witch in Russian folklore.

Claire Booker's pamphlets are Later There Will Be Postcards (Green Bottle Press) and The Bone That Sang (forthcoming, Indigo Dreams). Her poetry has appeared most recently in Magma, The Morning Star, The Spectator and Stand. www.bookerplays.co.uk