Foxy fox on the chain gang. Ginger fox.
Wolf whistles with the whip.
Badger badgers.
Only fox the jealousy of the underfoot.
Fox carries wood between her jaws,
builds the monastery and gets no credit
'cept this slinky rage. This fit
of underhanded pique. This is what
we write her down about.
But three ill-gotten shoes
is a magic number
and desire is punishable by death.
The first shoe found in the stream where she'd been
admiring herself. Some say it was the shoe of power.
In her cave she rested her head on the shoe,
on its fickle leather. She licked and stroked it and
looked on it with unforgivable anguish and love.
Then a collar. And an axe. And becoming wood-bearer.
And the two shoes imposing on her downturned sight
and kicking in her small kidneys.
When they came for her, they came to her den,
the wolf and badger were afraid and carried
amulets made from the gnashing of her ancestors.
They stuffed her tail down her throat and nailed the shoes to her paws,
carried her to the monk with the cold eyes,
oh he could look at a fox and make her wish she was dead.
He put a spell on her using the bones of her comrades
(the wolf and the fox expendable in the pursuit of a penitent)
and made her to roll over and pray.
She repented and returned the shoes
bloody and unhinged
and picked up wood.
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