the fox came every evening to my door <br />asking for nothing. my fear <br />trapped me inside, hoping to dismiss her <br />but she sat till morning, waiting. <br /> <br />at dawn we would, each of us, <br />rise frm our haunches, look through the glass <br />then walk away. <br /> <br />did she gather her village around her <br />and sing of the hairless moon face, <br />the trembling snout, the ignorant eyes? <br /> <br />child, i tell you now it was not <br />the animal blood i was hiding from, <br />it was the poet in her, the poet and <br />the terrible stories she could tell.<br /><br />Lucille Clifton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/telling-our-stories/
