Words for the Fox, and: The Terms of My Conversion

Words for the Fox

A red flash in the green world the other week—Alert and furtive, corner-of-the-eye—

And now, this morning, here he comesDown the middle of the street,

Like any dog that's slipped its leash.

Big as life, except he's small, almost dainty.And limping:

His left forepaw lifted as in a slingOr flinching when it touches the ground.

His mud-flecked and molting rust-colored coat,The rack of the ribs sticking out.

It's hard to imagine him hunting muchUntil that leg is healed.

Till then I hope he finds enough to scavenge,Like the eggs I saw fallen from the nest—

Whole, robin, domed in blue—The scraps of food ravaged from the trash.

He'll need it to last.

The Terms of My Conversion

I

Summoned by the spirit that summerI slipped out back into the woods,Snapping off the fanning branchesI arrayed on the altar in our cellar—The tablecloth-draped boxCovered with candles and the leafy displayI was suddenly wild to worship.

II

You'll set the house on fire!My stepmother screamed, put those candles out,Dousing the whole ceremony,But not that wakened pagan sense of thingsWhich has never since quit me,The god in the Gnostic gospelLike the soul inside the tree.

III

A few years later the woods were sold,Clear-cut for one of those tractSuburban cul-de-sacs, split-leveledAnd sectioned into lots. It looked to meLike a patch of skin shaved aroundAn incision, raw and what I'd now callGlairy, the sutures all tied off.