Foxes at Twilight — revision


In flashing sable

quickness, up onto the fading deck

comes the fox

swollen with kits, yipping at the cats


Sending a dog out

into the dark, I remember

that I gave away my mother’s suede coat

threw out or forgot a last box–


The straw hat with a thin red ribbon

she wore to meet my father

back from the war


She looks out

from the stern topaz eyes

of an owl the color of the cottonwood


She asks, as the moon trembles

on the horizon

are you going to write

that my rage was love?



Two foxes course in

through the near-dark,

come in to take, in the taking


Giving back presence,

an afterglow, the body

of the world


I drink a glass of twilight

I see the dusk through glass

so that it is something more than dusk

it is a mirror of time

in that mirror clouds on fire appear

and disintegrate.


My face there, with trees

growing across it,

a garden no one has watered

in a decade, my mouth.


copyright 2010 Jenne’ R. Andrews