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one evening i return
to a red fox
haunched by my door.
i am afraid
although she knows
no enemy comes here.
next night again
then next then next
she sits in her safe shadow
silent as my skin bleeds
into long bright flags
of fur.
from the terrible stories (BOA Editions, 1996). Copyright © 1996 by Lucille Clifton. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company on behalf of BOA Editions.
won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
poets in their bassinets
dream a splendid woman holding over their baby eyes
a globe, shining with
possibility. someone,
she smiles, has to see this
and report it, and they
in their innocence
believing that all will be
as beautiful as she is,
in the dream of foxes
there is a field
and a procession of women
clean as good children
no hollow in the world
surrounded by dogs
no fur clumped bloody
on the ground
only a lovely time
of honest women stepping