by Heather Carnaghan
My car flew dangerously around the bend
as I fled my cookie cutter neighborhood
has been neatly replaced by concrete
and a community pool.
She dove into the road,
as unexpected as my frenzied midnight journey.
Tires screeched, tattooing the fresh tar,
but she sat, still and stoic,
staring with holographic eyes,
I stared back,
how unlike a real fox
the toys I’d bought for Charlotte were.
She was beautiful,
like loving her might rip the heart
right out of your chest.
Her fiery tail flicked impatiently
as she bored with our encounter
and let me pass.
I didn’t recognize the gift that she left me:
a permanent symbol of a life
that wouldn’t last.