Poem by Lia Brooks
Photo by Jill Burhans

 
   
 
Don't look, darling, the fox is dead
 

It wonít leave a smear. The next rainfall
cleans concrete like clemency. We can pick up

our things, leave the vehicle
the way it is. Wade the ford, skirt hitched,
leave the last of the copper fur
dinting the skin with the surface dwellers.

Thatís all it is. And as they skate
around the fine hairs, youíll forget
the letter in the glove box,
the way you depicted paw prints ― soft
like the back and tail, vulnerable
when the teeth bit in.

Donít run, darling, the howling comes
through the woods like reminders ―
just echoes, thatís all it is, thatís all it is.



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