Hide Your Face When the Moon Cries
The fox sings
and all the ears in the wood become silent,
uneasy. Wild things remembering how frail life is,
how close one step might take them.
If you suspect
always check the fingernails.
She whittled at her own, chewed away the evidence,
like the fox chews off his own foot in the trap.
at the inside of her mouth,
picked at the invisible itch
on her sheer skin,
as if all the scars would be hidden.
And, if you
is everything alright?
She would always answer,
yes, Im fine.
As the moon
cried, she sat for hours
under the bat song, scraped with the nubs
of her little fingers, trying to bury
the resurfacing heads of secrets,
sew the foot
back onto the foxs leg.
she pulls up a corner of the curtain
on the windowless night,
where all the expired stars
are stitched into the carpet of her mind;
the fox sleeps
pawless yet alive.