Little Dog
by Johanna Caton, O.S.B.
Now this woman was a gentile, a Syro-Phoenician by birth,
and she begged him to drive the devil out of her daughter (Mk. 7:26).
i.
When frightened at night, my little girl would stand
at my bedside. Her sharp silence woke me. Our little
dog Moono would stand with her, panting softly.
ii.
The rabbi Jesus isn’t looking at me but my silence
is sharp and he knows I’m there—I, a woman but little:
girl, little dog. He: the mother. I: frightened, panting.
He’s made a man’s deformed hand whole. The man
stares at Jesus, mouth open, walks away, backwards.
Jesus keeps eyes locked with his until I run up to him.
I kneel, lift my face, say, “Sir, I beg you, my daughter—”
I pant harder. My little daughter, my Alva, is so ill
she raves, burns, soils herself, does not sleep or eat.
iii.
My husband told me of the rabbi healer. He said: Go!
Go to him. Now! He might help us. We are not Jews!
I say. He says: Go anyway, run! I find him in the town.
I wait, I wait for him, and he gazes down at me. Surprise:
his eyes flicker a smile. He puts me in mind of Kam, little
boy I played with as a child in contests of wit and word:
we’d tease each other till one of us would fall into rage.
Kam rarely won. I always answered succinctly, calmly.
I was good at this game. The rabbi’s eyes dance.
iv.
Still kneeling, I feel my fear melt, stream. I realise:
he can do this. Then he tests me: “Is it fair to throw
the children’s food to little dogs?” Vision of Moono,
fed secretly (she thought) by my Alva under the table—
when she was well. We’ve never met, but I feel I
know him. I say to him in thought: Oh I don’t care
what you call me: little dog, even little pig. Just heal
my Alva. I am ready for him. I say aloud, “Ah, Sir,
even the little dogs are allowed the children’s scraps!”
v.
I don’t expect to see his deep eyes fill, shine
like a moon on the night sea. I don’t expect
a feeling of music like the welling up of springs.
I don’t expect my joy to flutter like cascading
butterflies. He tells me my words have won
my Alva’s healing. I am still, his light is rest.
Then I rise from my knees, bow, give him thanks.
I turn slowly from him toward the setting sun
and bruised clouds that look like mountains.
Johanna Caton, O.S.B, is a Benedictine nun of Minster Abbey, in Kent, England. Her poems have appeared in a number of publications, including The Christian Century, St. Austin Review, Ekphrastic Review, Amethyst Review, One Art, Today’s American Catholic, Fathom, Fare Forward, Windhover, The Catholic Poetry Room, and in two anthologies published by Amethyst Press: All Shall be Well, Poems for Julian of Norwich and Thin Places and Sacred Spaces. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee.
