August 2018
I still have my mother's fox stole, though I would never wear it or any other fur. Right now I am immersed in my garden, which is producing amazing crops of raspberries, blueberries, cucumbers, tomatoes, and (of course) zucchini. I've also been spending time with my four grandsons, who are perpetually inspiring.
Fox Stole
They died for beauty
they could not perceive,
her lovely shoulders,
her hair’s matching glint.
Inside the curtained
alcove near my bed
they circled, teeth to
tail, with lidless eyes
the sleep I hunted,
terrified to catch.
My mother soothed,
my father brought the light.
Shy as a fox, I
could not name my fear—
those weeping bodies
rising from their lair.
from Traction (Ashland, 2011)
© 2018 Mary Makofske
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