Today's poem is by Naomi Feigelson Chase
I, too, am wild to hold
Since Nadya found the tattered fox near my house
In the crude bednest of its ratty fur.
Nadya can't thin lettuce without wincing,
Yet would make a paintbrush of its tail,
Then bury it.
It's my fox, isn't it?
My bed salted with its matted hair,
My own thin skin.
As for its fur, why not keep it,
A housewife's thrift,
Like Jew's hair stored
In an Argentine barn, for future use,
Like Ataphaulpha's gold gods
Smelted to cannon.
Isn't all death a good riddance.
Quitting earth of the useless,
While we expedient manufacturers
Go about our cleansing business.
Copyright © 2005 Naomi Feigelson Chase All rights reserved
from New Orleans Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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