Literary Work
Prudence NANCY DIAMANTE BONAZZOLI
On the drive today I passed a baby fox splayed over dirty pavement, his fur’s strawberry highlights reflecting dawn light. My heart’s reaction benumbed by living, I didn’t stop. Wasn’t curious enough to meet his glassed eyes nor compassionate enough to pray over him. The moon tipped last night, sloshed her brilliance all over my tiny trailer’s walls. I squinted, shut out radiance. Still, our city hasn’t burned. Our family all came home last night. That it only happens to others is a story we tell ourselves for we, who have time and peace enough for poetry, speak of our privilege to friends who share it. The wisdom of foresight might have saved the fox; we, who are awake enough to read this now, perhaps might yet weep.
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