Page 26 - WTP Vol. VII #1

19
Fox Sonnet
A quick rustle in the undergrowth,
a chattering of squirrels and whir of birds—
I hurried to the window when I heard
the growling fox, who shook the rodent in his mouth.
The squirrel’s body was small and soft, as if he’d given in
the moment the fox clamped shut his jaw
to shake and fling his victim down. Now, call
the crow to squawk and scold, although such murder is not sin.
I’d stood, afraid to watch this struggle in the woods, and still how hard it was to turn away
or ignore the raw fascination of the kill.
Only later did I think of men and war, what combat steals—
we’ve read their names, we’ve mourned and yet we will
forget them. Lock the gates, close the door―the fox has had his meal.
That June
I didn’t want to go there
traveling alone, soon to become an orphan that June, are
his wife and her brothers waiting for me, no
longer responsible for my father once he finally dies, all their speeches about how sad they’ll be, how they loved my dad, or
was I confused, their actions and their languages
so at odds, my father’s home far away from my home, his wife where my mother used to be, and his wife’s brothers, their
urgency to have me take away his clothes and books, their voices
at night rumbling into snores from my father’s guest rooms, are
there planes that could have taken my dad and me away, not
his ashes but his living body, a way to fly from all I’d seen, all I’d heard?
Note: This is a “golden shovel” poem based on line from Psalm 18 in the Douay-Rheims Bible.
cortney DaviS 2018 wtP honoraBLe Mention