The Lynx
THE LYNX
That black cat, I spy - he licks the puppet all over.
The fox’s red fur feels not the imposition nor
the puppetmaster’s paw, but the red fox,
my prey, feels the crunch of its bones, insanity bleeds,
after the toilsome run from my teeth.
My teeth chatter, cold and cruel, terribly hungry
to rip up a carcass, to chow down
a soul. I eat the meat raw.
Its blood is my foundation -
I powder my nose. The cries of my prey
with stuffing and gravy. Yes, let’s do
Thanksgiving. Like me, the black cat
defiles a fox. We are both satisfied.
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