There was a fox on the patio this morning.
Her coat proud orange bursting, the tip
of the tail black, as if
she dipped it in paint.
She slipped through the bars, mama,
my daughter said, incredulous
that a creature so full might
skinny herself to escape.
She stood at the window, sparkly
headband, mismatched socks, sleeves
unable to keep up
with her yearning arms, face
unmasked, raw
in its awe of a world
where a fox can visit
in the midst of buttered toast
and the slow rise
of the sun, fading sky pink
to grey to blue, so blue.
She ran up the stairs
to tell daddy. I placed
a hand against the cold pane,
and wondered when
she will begin to bend
herself between bars
to escape my grasp.
Eve Kagan is a trauma-informed therapist, educator, and theatre-artist. Her poetry is forthcoming in Eunoia Review and Amethyst Review; her personal essays and short stories have been published in various journals and anthologies, including HuffPost, Role Reboot, Mothering through the Darkness, and Dark City Lights. She lives in Boulder, Colorado.
Featured image by Rob Lee “Sunny Fox” (crop, filters applied) CC BY 2.0
