INTRUDERS ¤ ¤ ¤ THE VIEW FROM INSIDE OUT ¤ ¤ ¤ GOING
Out the kitchen window
I saw it stealing up the gully,
low as morning prospects
with a bushy tail, quicker
than a focused eye.
Beyond, a dull summer-
thistle gully ready to ignite.
I thought fox-fire, leftover
spark of stars, & plain
late-season light.
The beast stayed low. I named
it Fox. Gray & low
it disappeared like it knew
its way here, much better
than I.
The air goes banging through doors
and under the galvanized metal
roof. You can feel it pry
itself through the parts of junked
cars, the old gray thistle drying.
Birds are silent against such air.
She rocks in her chair, measuring
distress. Her blue dress isn't
dirty, isn't torn or threadbare,
quite. It's not sucked colorless
on the clothesline -- no, not yet.
But that could happen, anywhere.
He'll come, he'll swear the house
with peeling paint stands evergreen
as ivy, as if it didn't wear
the mummy-form of everyone who's
died here. He tells such lies
against the desiccating air.
The sunlight cotton smell
of shirts soft from the dryer
reminds her, she could fold
her garments down to suitcase size
so they'd be warm as skin
when she arrived
wherever she'd be going.
The beasts cling to her ankles,
dog insistent in the way.
"Oh take me too." The cat
with her velcro tongue
on every counter. "Take
me too."
Only husband, daughters, son
say nothing with so many
words around the table,
but their fingers tucked
and folded, put away.
