Fox Fire at the Changing Tree

The burning that must

have been coming from me—

these are lines I'm stealing

from someone else's poem, just after

I've resolved not to lie, not to steal

to live in my evergreen

integrity as long as I can manage it

I'm much like these foxes

gathered on a night whose stars

might be flakes of snow

They have their burning torches

to lift and bear

down the road, fully camouflaged

once they've put on the stolen forms

of pious pilgrims

The bare, spreading tree above them

is fit for owls to inhabit

when a savory hunger makes them take

deadly aim

on any small rustle in the dry leaves

That's their true nature

however haunting their melancholy cries

But the foxes—for the love of me

(and it's exactly that)

I can't see why

I shouldn't want to touch them, stroke them

I might just rub the ruddy silk

of their coats against my cheek

And often have, you tell me bluntly

That friction, however

slight, sufficient to make me

spit fire, gnash my teeth

and lunge for the soft parts of your body

lifting my chin moments after

to say hotly, I didn't mean to

I didn't sense it coming

As if I were the innocent one

blindsided, bloodied

(Ando Hiroshige, Fox Fire at the Changing Tree on New Year's Eve at Oji, woodblock print from One Hundred Famous Views of Edo)