Vixen



 

A man watches his mistress

brush her auburn hair in the lamplight.

one stroke  then another,

 

long and deliberate

as if enticing  prey.

 

Outside, the moon casts

its pewter shadow over the trees;

and a fox wails

straining to release more

than her wild cry.

 

Her voice carries

toward the canal and cobblestones

making the still water

quiver. The air smells damp;

 

and night abides the hour,

( the soft-lit house) waiting to trespass

in a dream, telling  the man

what led to this.

 

A female in his mirror

grooming herself

to appear mortal, safe from the hunt.

 

An animal clothed in  fire

that does not burn, only burnish

the dusk with fur, red hair

that once was human,

 

and styled by slim hands

that conjured, prayed too hard

to become more clever.