The Foxes Go Into the Night
A poem (kind of) inspired by RBG’s death, and how we go on living
The Night
The night you died three foxes
played in the street. An early
fall chill hung over the empty road.
The air felt new
after summer’s sticky heat;
three months of breathing that salty stink
coming off the harbor beach at low tide,
when the sun bakes both the sand
and the creatures that live
at the edge of water and earth —
that damp sliver of space between
what is mine and what is now yours.
I looked up from the foxes
to the trees overhead.
The leaves were dark grey in the night,
and their edges had begun to curl
as they prepared to let go and
rest on the ground.
They looked old and tired
after doing their job all summer:
Giving me shade
as I walked to the mailbox
on Bangs Street with a card for Karen.
As I biked to the beach to gossip
about the boys in the boats.
As I hurried to the market for more
chocolate chips before the dough set.
As I ran to the trails before the air
became too thick to move through.
As I lived that summer, carelessly but fully.
The foxes stopped their tumbling
when they noticed me standing there
— paused patches of red and brown
under the streetlight.
They slowly pulled
themselves from their play,
taking care to not move too fast,
to not scratch one another,
to keep making eye contact with me
in a way that says No, we are not afraid;
but also, Yes, we must be going now,
for good.
September 2020
