A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature: over 400,000 monthly users
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.
In the field, at the slaughterhouse,
the meal begins.
In piss and shit, it ends.
What life does not deserve memory and regard?
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.
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.
Copyright 2019 Luray Gross. From Lift published by Ragged Sky Press.