Poem by Lia Brooks
Photo by Jill Burhans
Photo by Jill Burhans
Don't look, darling, the fox is dead It won’t 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. That’s all it is. And as they skate around the fine hairs, you’ll 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. Don’t run, darling, the howling comes through the woods like reminders ― just echoes, that’s all it is, that’s all it is. |