These Hazy Days

In the Fox's Den

in the fox's den you sleep, orange stone breaking—

dew collecting in the hutch of last night's capture.

screaming she is and you hear it rip into your dream—

you see a woman clothed in silk, and on her dress

the seams tear; gently at first then faster,

heartbeat on a scent trail accelerating,

white man's breath catching—

"pounce!" he shouts.

in your teeth you feel the skin break,

soft fur cleaved to fractured bone.

the screaming is louder now and there's

a new sound—a rattle, a clank of shifting metal—

metal bone? "don't look," cries the hunting man—

too late, you already have—and the fox den

is in sweet shrieking harmony.

you rub your blurry eyes and see the prey has woken—

she's shaking the bars of her solemn metal forest

and she's yelling for god. You close your eyes

and promise you'll cook her breakfast

in the morning.