The lady in my mother’s front hall
wore long black gloves and a black cloche hat.
The lady in my mother’s front hall
wore a fox whose eyes were shiny beads.
The fox kept biting its own tail.
I was as tall as the fox’s teeth
and I stared into the black bead eyes.
The fox stared back. Nobody told me
why the lady was wearing a fox.
Nobody told me why she had come
or why she was going away.
My whole life has been just like that.
I went to school and learned the books.
I married some man and bore my babies.
I cooked the dinners and I got old.
I can still hear footsteps from that dark front hall.
The fox knew more about death than I do.
