Fox Fire At The Changing Tree Poem by Margaret Gibson

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