Luray Gross: Fox Follows

I 

Under the long moon, fox calls and calls

not to me or anyone else in this house,

but we waken, trying to translate that want,

that need, that possible joy.

.

In the morning, our dogs pull

toward the musk. They read news 

of which I remain ignorant

even though I taste it in the air.

.

At noon, fox lolls in the sun,

rises and trots, pausing now and then

to look my way.

II

In the field, at the slaughterhouse, 

the meal begins.

In piss and shit, it ends.

.

What life does not deserve memory and regard?

III

Fox follows, catches up at every corner.

He leans against a post and leers

through his mask of red and white papier-mâché. 

.

I change my body for that of a man

covered in swirled inscriptions,

but fox is not fooled, does not quit.

.

I cross the river, I lie in wait.

I take up oriental discipline.

Fox ambles toward me.

IV

He has taken off his mask.

He carries it through the brown grasses.

.

I crouch, I spring,

I grab fox by the throat, shake and shake,

and then let go.

.

I churn in my bed like a shell in the surf.

Fox shivers away like rain.

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Copyright 2019 Luray Gross. From Lift published by Ragged Sky Press.

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