WRITING

ORIGIN Old English wrītan‘score, form (letters) by carving, write,’ of Germanic origin; related to German reissen ‘sketch, drag.’

 

 

The Fox 

 

Mother said think like the fox.

When you turn invisible you will hear a chime.

 

Crossing the river bridge

before dawn. Walking home from school

through the red light district. Running

 

at night through the city, alone.

Peeling tangerines at the bus stop,

 

you eat the citrus slivers and toss

the rind. It disintegrates beneath a spruce tree.

You buy cowboy boots for protection

 

from rattle snakes. Snakes can teach you

to disappear. 

 

You find a coyote pup’s pale ribcage

lined with frost and magenta

strips of muscle and blood.

 

You cover it with sand and rocks and pinon branches.

Sleep close to a juniper fire and the ghosts

 

of wild javelinas won’t find you.

Remember the smell of a field to hide in. Clover.

A red tail. Keep it down, and a low nose.

 

A man in a long black jacket chases you.

Pause broadside behind an elm tree,

 

then run the length of its shadow.

A low backyard fence. A thicket

of flowerpots and bicycles.

 

A row of city corn. Rustle in,

then inhale the song, husk and tassel.

 

Hold your breath. Whisper

to the heart ringing

in your ears— fox, fox, fox.

 

(First appeared in Water-Stone Review, later reprinted in Kinesthesia)

 

 

Leaves from Last Fall 

 

Mid-day triples the sun’s light.

Grey doves haunt the shade and one won’t fly.

 

The cooing wind has brought us again to the trees,

limbs trembling above the cold clear river.

I hear corn husks whisper in a field over the hill.

I know if the sun had feathers we’d swoon.

 

Love me in the piles of lavender-colored leaves from last fall.

Revel in me where veins divide like a warm fork between winter and spring.

 

We are damp. Crows won’t come near.

I grip a song between my teeth, let it flutter.

You receive, hold tune in the long strings of your arms.

 

A frightened gosling cupped calm between your wet palms.

A glint like copper off moving water.

A whole note hummed and hummed.

 

I’d hoped you’d never let go.

 

(Published in Common Ground Review Spring/Summer 2006)