what if,
then,
entering my room,
brushing against the shadows,
lapping them into rust,
her soft paw extended,
she had called me out?
what if,
then,
i had reared up baying,
and followed her off
into vixen country?
what then of the moon,
the room, the bed, the poetry
of regret?
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.