The dogs of appetite

roam the neighborhood— dark
snouts beaky as plague masks sniff 
the air for rumors of bodies like ours. 
They'll hunt through streets of ivory, inked 
with latitudes and longitudes like a Mercator 
map. Unbridled, they'll prowl the alleys where 
our ghosts were last seen pulling hand carts,
holding up our hands, kneeling in front 
of a volley of blows or guns. Any dog 
not feathered or installed on a lap 
may have learned to curb its appetite. 
The others, whipped to frenzy, will do 
the bidding of faceless gods for an arm,
a tooth, a throat, an excavated heart.