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.

Heather Davidson has a BA in Creative Writing from Concordia University. Her poetry and fiction appear in publications including The Antigonish Review, Descant and The New Quarterly.