A whole poem, actually.
"Resting Places," Douglas Haynes
The meat tasted like wild ginger.
It was my only religion.
In the woods an hour later,
the setting sun back-lit
the hackles of a fox
caught in the crotch of a locust:
treed by dogs and starved
or trapped and strung up
by a person.
In a week, I went back
to see the fox's head
sunk and blackened
against a burning sky
like the girl's face
engulfed in flames
in my friend's painting
that my friend says
she painted in her room
before she knew
that a girld died there in a fire.
I bought the painting
to remember the mystery.
I returned again
and again to see the fox
hanging in effigy like my hand
lifting that dark medallion
of deer loin to my teeth.
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