FOX
I seem to be losing hope
as the mouths go by
that I do not kiss
nor kiss me;
the mouths that invite
and the mouths that do not
averted.
My heart beats quick
and small and darts like the fox
dealing the land
for his victims.
Are my eyes too muddy to seem green?
Are my teeth too sharp
for being yellow dull?
Is my bark a stab to your heart?
Do I want blood?
Is my mouth built for a kiss?
Your teeth when you smile
are white like chickens to me:
Survival.
You, hunter to keep them,
when my lips nip down,
do you lower the gun,
do you remember do you hear me
sing clear round your house?
Or will the end tear
like teeth to a neck
like a sleepy death come
like a bullet is sent
from the hunter to the animal?
Dana Pattillo
Note: This poem springs entirely from misreading the line “as the months go by” in D.H. Lawrence’s short novel, The Fox. I wrote the original draft of this piece one evening at a party in October 1978. I remember the circumstances well because I wrote about 5 poems that night. Peaking on a manic phase, no doubt. I thought to post it because of Ms. Candide’s comment on PoD 75 , Hungry Poem. Just for you, Sam.
