I was a fox before you knew me.
Felt things better with paws
that gave in to each crevice of pine needle,
killed prey quick with playful leaps
to make dark blood flowers bloom
in the snow. It might be the laughter
I miss most, open to teeth and the rest
came through. You begin to suspect
what a trick it is, having any kind of body.
Cold nips and carves, winter rattles
the trees’ bones. But the elms give nothing
away. They were how I used to think
of the living, until I was human
and I knew the living would want more.