When Prozac Doesn't Work

When Prozac Doesn’t Work

A black wolf is at my back. 
My brain wrenches;
I go counter-intuitive:
I slow my pace. He slows his.
Then – he puts his front paws
on my shoulder blades.
I feel his claws dig in, 
but not too deep.
On the back of my neck
I feel the heat of his panting.
For the next few steps
we dance together in an unholy conga
with a slow-crawl beat.
Somewhere near I hear a dog bark,
then growl. I look.
A massive, golden-brown mastiff
stands mighty on the hill
with muscles braced and teeth bared –
encapsulated ecstasy.
He is here to rescue me.
He is picking a fight with the wolf.
The wolf digs his claws in deeper,
then yanks them from my back. 
He runs, fast, toward the mastiff. 
I just stand there weeping,
watching the wolf tear apart
my canine knight in capsule armor.

Cynthia Pitman

I am a retired high school English teacher. I began writing again this past summer after a 30-year hiatus. I have recently had poetry published in Vita Brevis, Postcard Poems and Prose, Right Hand Pointing, Ekphrastic Review, Literary Yard, Amethyst Review, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Three Line Poetry, Leaves of Ink, Third Wednesday, and Mused. I have had fiction published in Red Fez, Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art and Dual Coast Magazine. My first poetry collection, The White Room, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.