The song of another mother’s day is almost sung.
Outside beneath stars the fox that haunts the fir grove
must be snuffing to find the muskrat nest.
It appraises houselight through the shade
and wavers, one foot raised, ready to flee if the lamp

abrades the darkness too much. Now it scents
the remains of weekdays crammed in a can
whose odors stir hunger and grief:
diapers, milk jugs, grease and tea. The tea
is making her sleepy, now she lowers her eyes

to the convexity of breasts, shades of veins, the lost
hands prowling what contains the belly, hers
to regard in the mirror, hers to fondle and wash.
Love your body, love it, the lustrous magazines insist.
Coat your hands with lotion, lavish your cheeks and chin.

Now the fox decides to draw near the house, to examine
the can for the last time. Galvanized metal glows
in the splash of stars, one handle tips up like an ear,
the tone if the fox should scratch the can
might shiver listening flesh and chill teeth to the core.

In the still of the house a cry penetrates walls
and crosses the yard, past the creek and needles of trees
to fall short of the plump moon. The mother robes
her delicate body and floods the yard in light. A child,
hers, is curing her dream of a fox crept from the fir grove.