Our room is lit
like a chapel.
The light is soft and evident
on your face,
scruffy and doe eyed.
You've left one hand
in the middle of my chest
like a magnifying glass.
In the dream preceding reality
I have tumbled
through thickets and hills.
I am the fox
and you are the equestrian
who can smell out my heart
better than the hounds.
Whenever you catch me,
you remove my heart with a knife,
watch it shiver in your palm
and slice it into halves
before placing them on your tongue.
And then
it is the beginning again.
A heart springs up beneath my ribs
and countless times
I let you find me.
“Fox Hunting” was printed in Salem Cemetery, No. 6 of Inwood Indiana. Pick up the paperback from Prolific Press; the stories and poems published online are free to read here.
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