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Folk Tale
Chelsea Woodard
for Nonny Hogrogian
In the story, I remember a hungry young fox
rendered in pastels. He has stolen
from a strict-mannered woman in town, his tail's been cut off, his lot
cast to repay her: stomach still swollen
with her Guernsey cow's milk, his head hung
for him. In the story, I remember bright sun
at air, his shame-path dry and sorrowful.
And reading, I knew the author had lived
And in the book, every page held a trade: a pail
for their pity -- a sack of clean down, a gold coin, a gift --
and that he'd at last made it back, the cold pail
of the stern woman's house. And I pictured the blood-matted tail
handed back to him, dragged over our slab-granite walk,
smelled the freezing ground
swelling -- stumbled with apples, damp now, half rotten --
the author's fingers rust-smudged from the work,
decades later on baseboards and rimed sills of doors --
heart-learned, unwritten.
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