Once I skulked snoutwise through scrap-iron forests,
And to each man with his silver pail scowled:
You are not beautiful enough
to make me human.
I had a fox’s education:
rich coffee grounds in every house gutter,
mice whose bones were sweet to suck,
stolen bread and rainwater on whiskers:
slow theogonies of bottle caps and house cats.
I crouched, the color of rusted stairs,
and to each boy who chased me
through rotted wheat laughed:
You are not beautiful enough
to turn my tail to feet!
But this is a story,
and in a story
there is always someone
beautiful enough.
In a wood I found you
in the classical way,
a girl in a dress with a high hem,
ribbons in her teeth,
honey on her thumbs.
(Damn all of you. All your red hair
just enough like fur,
Damn all your small mouth,
your damp smell,
Damn all your pianos and stitching hoops.
Had I but paws enough to stamp out
your every spoken word like snow!)