by Sonya Taaffe
The way of foxes with history is the way of teeth with bone, chewing experience into evidence as ghosts steal into a photograph. The fox sends letters, rolled like gimbap in laver as black and shining as a fox's nose. The fox catalogues a library, tied with cords of amber and nephrite as neatly whisking as a fox's brush. The fox in cold forests of larches and lake-blue sky marries a one-eyed tomcat, almost as great a trickster as herself. The fox of Whitechapel leads all his lovers home down the moon's broad road, skull-stark at the end of the street. The fox dyes his hair in the kitchen sink and dances all night to drumming, scarlet as Inari's flickering paths. The fox wakes on a student's couch, the poems she fell asleep reading strewn like maple leaves across her chest. The fox is eating hearts, rice, that sandwich you thought you made yourself for breakfast, the sullen punk at the bus stop and the elegant professor on the bullet train showing their white, white teeth as they smile and slip into something more casual, like a life.
March 25th, 2015