FOX
BY ANDREA HENCHEY
The yip of a red fox pup kept me up
all night, intoxicated, and you, oh,
you think you’re so cunning,
goose-stepping the block.
Your cock: the rooster tail of dust
as you sped off in your rusty
Mustang. Me: the empty brick
garage. I’ve, I’ve got a bone
to pick and a crow to pluck.
I’ve got my tail tucked, wound
to lick. I prefer not to talk.
I said, I prefer not to talk.
The yip of a red fox pup kept me up
all night, intoxicated, and you, oh,
you think you’re so cunning,
goose-stepping the block.
Your cock: the rooster tail of dust
as you sped off in your rusty
Mustang. Me: the empty brick
garage. I’ve, I’ve got a bone
to pick and a crow to pluck.
I’ve got my tail tucked, wound
to lick. I prefer not to talk.
I said, I prefer not to talk.
ANDREA HENCHEY's MFA is from Pacific Lutheran University; her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Absent, H_NGM_N, Drunken Boat, Other Rooms, Pank, and A River & Sound Review. Though her travels have brought her to more exotic locales such as Nepal, Kenya, and Chile, she currently lives in Connecticut, where she coordinates Inescapable Rhythms, a poetry reading series; trains for marathons with her mutt, Bodhisattva; and teaches full-time. Learn more at www.andreahenchey.com.
