Content warning: references to intimate partner abuse.
"Torres Del Paine National Park, Chilean Patagonia" by helen@littlethorpe is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
I: Nature
The fox crouches beneath cotoneaster fronds,
red snout a strange berry.
A mouse scrabbles in the kudzu,
tiny twitchings of her nose, whiskers, paws.
The fox waits, can already taste
the burst of meat and blood across his tongue.
She's so near he can smell the wet earth of her fur.
In one motion he lunges, traps her in his jaw.
Her terror makes his heart thrill.
She goes still in the cage of his canines.
For long moments, months it seems,
(foxes cannot track time as well as they track prey)
he holds her.
Is she alive? Curiosity swarms like flies in the fox’s ears
and his jaw falls open like a trapdoor,
dropping the spit-slicked morsel into the duff.
With no breath wasted the mouse dives back into the kudzu,
deep beneath its sheltering barbed wire.
Her babies will wonder why she brings home
the scent of the hunter.
What do we say about foxes?
They cannot be trusted to protect hens and chicks.
The difference between the fox in the wood
and the fox in humans’ minds is this:
the true animal does not grieve when its prey escapes,
does not spend months wondering why she left.
II: In Fairytales
What makes a man terrorize the mother of his child,
who saw Kali in the basins of blood
the midwives carried from her bedroom,
who nearly died ushering in their lily-child?
What makes him tear the telephone wire from the wall,
arbiting connection to kin and rescue, as though
her screams would not carry from house to house?
We hire police to muzzle such men and cage them,
lawyers to seal the locks with guilt.
It is no wonder that some men dream themselves into
foxes or wolves, blade-toothed wild hounds, as though
doing so excuses them from the twin responsibilities of
conscience and respect. To live by hunger, lust,
the violence of bones snapped between strong jaws,
scent, the hunt: simple, isn’t it?
And all the throbbing, hot-veined creatures who
tremble in your presence are yours for the taking.
III: The Leash
Last night I dreamed we made a private joke between us.
While laughing, you wrapped a cord around my throat
so gentle and slow, I didn’t notice at first
how tight it became until I could no longer
slip my fingers underneath and pull it loose.
We pretended that this, too, was funny.
Men have told me what to think, what to wear,
what to eat, what to buy, whom to love, what to say.
What not to say.
I have made their leashes my own.
IV: Wake Up
Sirens slice the night.
Red and blue spins across your face.
Your hand still clutches the torn telephone line,
copper wires the frayed end
of a marriage come undone,
ragged, separating, naked.
They enter in blue, sticks raised.
Behave as an animal and they will treat you like one.
V: Leaving
Just as the fox does not grieve and blame himself when the mouse escapes,
the mouse does not celebrate or feel proud. But we are not animals,
and I was secretly glad when I heard you left him.
More than secretly: I wanted to set bonfires on each mountaintop
to light your way to liberty. I longed to name each beacon
that would welcome you: Overleving, Sopravvivenza,
Vrijheid, Liberté, Freiheit. Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.