The Fox

I am 16 and it is my first time
in the “Big Smoke”
You take me to a vintage store
and the retail clerk says
something about “your daughter”
Your teeth gleam and —
“She’s my granddaughter, actually”

You were born a fox, now in your prime
you always know where the food is you
just wait for the right moment
to pounce and you
always know just when

You and B start to run
a bed and breakfast
out of your newly built home
When I visit, you make
pancakes and bacon
on the extra large grill
usually reserved for guests
We drink scotch at night you
grin and shake your head
because I like “that peaty stuff” you
give me advice I know I won’t
heed and we talk about the boat,
we eat, we lean close

Now is a time for rest,
you lay in your den
with your fox tail wrapped and
muted red about your face, eyes
harvest moons on dark water

B is supposed to be with you
but you arrive alone
We all know your memory
is going, you won’t admit
your reflexes are too
Driving one-handed, telling stories,
running red lights
I worry we might not make it
B just doesn’t have the heart
to tell you no

You turn back into a kit,
smaller now
all softness and quickly

tumbling, tumbling, tumbling

needs to be fed, protected, kept warm

7 am, I pace my empty apartment
Watching my phone from
across the room I see
“Mom” lash across the screen
trapped, refusing to accept
I let it ring but
I already know you’re gone

Old fox, you were so alive,
wise and mischievous to the last
But time is a hunter
and now your den collapses
Leaving nothing but dirt

Liszt – La Gondola Lugubre, S. 200, No. 2