Animal Watching

By Santino DallaVecchia

lstn listn listen. Before the nineteen seventeen small town taverns
and their grimy liquor fronted mirrors, Shhhhh, through the big headed
little fox’s impenetrable gaze before the thirst and before the quenching
Mid Spring early May. Memory’s cold eye fixed on the flow of love’s
skin under her waist around and above her thighs. Hands grasping oh–
“You have no idea.” Warm eye kissing and straddled innocence
Light falling elemental into trees like water moving over toes and grass
and ankles and flooding wood fence lawns. “I feel so safe with you like this,”
I said. But you, fox, baby fox, who knew our passage like a boat hugging
the riverbank, it probably drove you back to your cool den
and warm soft red family, lost pathways to made beds
You left yourself behind for the earth sighing itself out into
the cornfield expanse of sunset. I let myself through the door
and started drinking, remembering you as the first run of whiskey came down


Santino DallaVecchia is a poet and essayist from Michigan. He is the editor at See Spot Run, a literary and arts journal, and divides his time between Lansing, Detroit, and Grand Rapids.