Two Foxes
I’ll carry your loss in my purse pouch, rattling like half cut emeralds, like twins in the womb that can’t rotate at the axis, can’t turn all the way around. I’ll hunt the desert clay for two wrestling foxes, flossing side by side in wild red dust. In the canyon. Did you pack provisions? A skinning knife, waxed thread, obsidian, and a flare gun, loaded correctly. Did you carry any sound? Did you signal at the river’s hip while I was dashed onto dry rocks? Thrown from that breathing gash, as it raged towards the sea. I can stand up and see you over the hill, rotating at the axis. But I’m still hunting two foxes, flossing side by side. When you had two children, I wasn’t there at their births or after or now.
Tanya L. Young is a Washington based writer and artist. She is currently an MFA candidate in Poetry at Western Washington University. Her work has been featured in Stonecoast Review, New York Quarterly, Salt Hill Journal, and other publications. She is currently a staff reader for The Bellingham Review and The Maine Review.
