Feral

For T 

 

I remember reading a story once,

set in Victorian England,

about a gentleman whose young wife

—in an unexplained miracle

of the very worst kind—

gradually turns into a fox.

 

And here you are sitting in our kitchen

at a quarter to one in the morning,

dressed in someone else’s coat,

smelling of neglect and nights

without the comfort of sleep.

 

Are you well?

Such a useless question 

when thirst is slowly unravelling summer

from your skin,

your hair,

your eyes,

from the corners

of your mouth.

 

We offer you the couch

but you are racing across fields,

Winter’s cold breath pounding in your ears.