Foxcatcher
The geese put a spell on me.
When they flew in a V, I
had to turn that way. Wings to
the left, I must stand very still.
Wings to the right and I must run
around the house three times, saying
“Hup, hup, hup,” in whatever I’m wearing
when they signal, and whatever the weather.
No carrying food. Any food left must be
chewed upon return, coffee drunk as is.
If they sound at night, they must be quickly
viewed against the moon, scanned with glasses
from the right window, which must be sought.
I have remained waggish though alert.
They don’t always get my jokes.
When I drove the tank to Tim’s, the wooded
acres whipped my face, but did not change my smile.
His wife said he could not come out to play.
You cannot trust them.
The rocks spoke to me softly.
Chuchotantes. How soothing were their voices.
They let me know I was the sacred head
of this 800 span and I must act right.
“No,” you said, “We won’t.”
I am the foxcatcher. I drink your jouissance,
feel it on my dick, my hands, the quick red fox.
I’ve caught the fox, your sex, your soul.
Hands out you stand, your brains are in your hands,
perfect in your thighs, the sudden heave
and he is down, the wrestling mat. For this you have worn gold
and know full well that thud would start the avalanche
frisson in my dick’s tip. The stones are certain, have
clarity, told me to load and pull the safety back. One your
arm, two you chest and then my enemies... your soothing
voice is gone. I’ve won this fall, you spy, you traitor
to my land.
Page(s) 21
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