TRIGGER WARNING: DEATH
after the traditional folk song, “The Fox”
We go to the cemetery to die—just a little:
a bite of flesh, a single fingernail, one snipped braid.
(for the fox had many miles to go that night)
We leave these small deaths at the gates: offerings
to the wind that batters us until we are pink and new.
We go to the cemetery to molt—we sit very still as the gardeners
pull away all of our dead things: rib by rib, finger by finger.
(and the little ones chewed on the bones)
We go to the cemetery and wait for the king
to finally trot through the labyrinth of headstones.
He will take us by the scruff of our necks,
he will make use of us wretched things, little perfect corpses--
his jaw breaking on the song he carries between his teeth.
(the fox and his wife had never had such a supper in their life)
Victoria Mier is a writer, independent bookstore owner and antiques dealer. She was published extensively as a journalist in a previous life (The Philadelphia Inquirer, Philadelphia magazine, The Reading Eagle) but these days, she only sends fiction & poetry into the world, scrawled on scraps of paper tucked into a raven’s wing. You can find her work in Luna Luna Mag and A Witch’s Craft zine. Follow her on Instagram on her bookshop's page, @spiralbookcase for unhinged book reviews and pictures of the shop cat, Calliope.