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.