A lean red animal streaks across the field,
over the road, and into the woods. Is it a fox?
Its tail is thin; the poor beast has mange.
I fear for it, pity its precarious existence.
But can I change for it, nurse it in my studio?
My cats, each with their own charm, humor,
elegance—for love I cleaned their litter boxes,
made space for them on the bed, saw them die,
their eyes imploring me to stop the agony
of their transmutation, until they turned inward
to be alone with it, to accomplish it. Could I
witness that once more? Make room for love?
I will not change again until death makes me.
The people I slept with, who gave me pleasure,
delight —they say I treated them like guests,
welcomed warmly, not invited to stay. It’s true:
Just as I would step away after smoking, afraid
to offend others with the smell on my breath,
hands, hair, so I held back from lovers, feeling
neither safe enough nor entitled to break open
the vial of my odor, the scent of a terrified fox.
Charisse Gendron lives in Portland, Maine, where she volunteers at Mechanics’ Hall library and teaches for Coastal Senior College. Her work appears in Anomaly Poetry, Blood & Bourbon, Empyrean, Feral, Paris Lit Up Gazette, Pictura Journal, Prosetrics, Sabr Tooth Tiger, The RavensPerch, The Soliloquist, 3rd Wednesday, Trashlight, and other publications.
