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folk tale
chelsea woodard
for nonny hogrogian
in the story, i remember a hungry young fox
rendered in pastels. he has stolen
from a strict-mannered woman in town, his tail's been cut off, his lot
cast to repay her: stomach still swollen
with her guernsey cow's milk, his head hung
as he 1 the sad route she has mapped
for him. in the story, i remember bright sun
glaring, the fox 2 and tailless, his tongue lolling, lapping
at air, his shame-path dry and sorrowful.
and reading, i knew the author had lived
in our house -- rust-colored 3, fall-
and in the book, every page held a trade: a pail
bartered for rare, lazuli 6, a brown-speckled egg
for milled grain, straw for the 7 pulling
the 8. and i knew that each time, the fox had begged
for their pity -- a sack of clean down, a gold coin, a gift --
and that he'd at last made it back, the cold pail
handle 9 in his teeth, milk sloshing the step
of the stern woman's house. and i pictured the blood-matted tail
handed back to him, dragged over our slab-granite walk,
smelled the freezing ground
swelling -- stumbled with apples, damp now, half rotten --
the author's fingers rust-smudged from the work,
mine 10 with the chalk dust we found
decades later on baseboards and rimed sills of doors --
the fine powder set into skin, each 11 history
heart-learned, unwritten.
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