foxMud Ceremony

by Sara Ryan


Today, the jackal marries

the fox. The fox is dead,

but still red as a split lip—

a clumsy pair.


The jackal is a witch kissing

her wife—the sunshower

wets her fur like a compulsion

of storm, of sun beat to blue

fire. A bright devil.


There are many things I have never done.

Buy a lottery ticket. Call

a radio station. Play slots.

Catch a bouquet of wisteria

or rats. A plague. Maybe


I’m the witch—the wolf

in a wedding dress. I can’t

say why the crow I marry

isn’t in the folklore—

isn’t in the black book.


When the rain spills from

the sky’s mouth like milk—

somewhere, a wife is crying.

Maybe I’m the wife. The devil

beating me, fighting

over my chicken bone;


bloody, stripped of meat.

This is when the funfair

begins. When the weather

turns salty—whips the dead

fox redder.


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