PUNK POETRY: On Laika, the Russian Space Dog by Stormy Corrin Russell

When he calls me a bitch, 

I think immediately of Laika. 

 

Laika, sole occupant of Sputnik 2. 

Laika, selected because she  

was a very good girl—the best girl. 

Laika, chosen from a pack of other 

girl dogs because girl dogs were  

“anatomically better suited than  

males for close confinement.” 

Laika, named for the one thing 

anyone bothered to learn about her 

(Laika: from layat', verb, “to bark”). 

Laika, who was trapped, whimpering 

in fear and confusion, believing  

that people were to be trusted, 

that men were good, were friends, 

until the moment her pulse tripled,  

and she overheated, and she died. 

But not quickly—it took hours for her 

to finally succumb to the stress of takeoff. 

By then, the men on the ground celebrated; 

being unable to create life themselves,  

they were content to toy with it. 

Laika, who was given a statue and called 

a hero; but only once she died, because  

what good is a girl-hero if she lives? 

 

When he calls me a bitch, I think of all 

the dogs the scientists let live while  

Laika was shuttled into orbit.  

I wonder if they bit, if they snarled,  

if they didn’t listen to the commands. 

I wonder if they knew, somehow, in  

some bone-deep part of them, that

there is no rest for the good girls. 

--Stormy Corrin Russell