Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser
1.
A
head without eyes.
Somewhere
a body,
without
a head.
Or,
maybe it is all in pieces.
Or,
devoured.
I
look at the still-intact nose, wet,
not
from life, but settled dew.
A
torn ear encircled by muddied
tufts
of fur – red and grey and thick and coarse.
The long,
narrow shape of the muzzle yet
covered
in a taunt canvass of skin.
A grey fox is dead.
But not long dead.
As
morning breaks the tiny undertakers are
just
beginning to arrive –
various
flies and a bald-faced hornet
saunter
in and out of dark, empty sockets.
At
some point during the day,
while
I am elsewhere doing less important things,
the fat,
black, flat-headed carrion beetles
will investigate,
hopeful
for adequate carnage.
They
will be disappointed,
and
leave,
knowing
nothing comes to them.
2.
But
what interests me now is the soul.
It is not
here.
I know
these things.
I have
spent my entire life in search of my own.
3.
Several
years ago, a mother goat died while lying
against
my knee caps, her screaming week-old twins
flanking
my sides.
We,
the three of us, watched her sag as the last in-breath,
realizing
it wasn’t going to be needed,
found
its way back out.
I
thought, now peace.
But
then!
Her
body suddenly shifted, up and down, a violent
rise
and fall measured in scant centimeters.
The
twins: silent, steady, in unison,
raised
their heads skyward, incrementally, until they were
staring
into the heavens above,
necks
outstretched, focused,
watching.
I
knew, then, what I had seen,
And,
I would see it again.
And,
I have.
4.
But, I was too late for the fox.
It arose while I slept in the holler below.
I
wonder if it looked down and
saw the
coyote there.
I
wonder what I might see on that day.
©
2013-2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From 'Wonderment: New and Selected Poems" (a work in progress)
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