The Fox Explains The Dream of Foxes

The women have come through the field,
one line for milk, another for flour.
They were told to wait there
for an hour, maybe two—
that was days ago. Some stand
but others sink back onto their heels.

There are dogs out there in the grasslands—
at the edge of the circle, grinning, baring their teeth.
But the women, too, could chew on rawhide,
could murder, give chase, devour anything
that moves. They could round out each
of a dozen solitary paths across the world—
meet in a great, physical hunt, get down on all fours
in the dust. I mean. In theory they could.

There's no fur on the ground—
but the women leave their hair behind them,
a few strands floating from a comb,
some stuck to a collar, a blanket, a sheet.
The art of clinging evolves as such,
to avoid the appearance of intent.
The women leave little red purses
behind them, beads, worn places
in the grass.

You think there's no shame in waiting?
Someone will come to assign you
a can of soup, a jar of rice. Someone
will let you be human, or send you
to the dogs. But love is subservient to need.
And the field is not peace; rich soil
is fed by blood, good fruit by toil and pain.

Copyright © 2007 Hannah Craig All rights reserved
from Smartish Pace
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission