the mother fox takes the kit in its mouth
Carries it to the bank
moist tongue teeth gentle
rough brush smoothing my fur-hair
to be carried this way
dry patch my life no blackberries along its shore
unspoken words clutter the hallways
and the constant chore of silencing the dead
where I live is bleak and vast worn paths
around a pond, rusted can bike wheels
old wire curls at my feet
the mother kit carries its
So sure I would be a competent mother
I swore I would
open keep your mouth open, only a few more
The pond frozen
The paddle boats turned upside down on the shore
Certain I could skate without blades
folds of moist
I live curled in the mouth of the fox.
I don’t say that to just anyone
but to you I’ll say it again: the place
formed in the shape of a fox, its slack jaw hanging
flies and ants crawl the pelt
ice-stare of its eye
and my brother hissing: touch it, touch it, I dare you