Of water, cupped from a bucket, barely enough
To wet a throat; barely enough to fill
A mouth, a hunk of bread—chewy, rough—
Torn from yesterday’s loaf. A breather, until
The foremen bark: They mistrust this cultish do
Gooder who hourly threads scaffold and line
Of bricks kilned with proconsuls’ names. For You,
He winces, only a sponge of vinegar wine.
But still a gift. And what gift for your gray
Fox?—or so you guess, by his single yip,
Ungodly and near, at midnight. And the mice that fray
Your mother’s loveseat, tunnel its cushions, strip
Its varnished claws? Eaten: the lesson (and threat)
Of the fox. And yet unseen—until a blaze
Of throat, undercoat. Then on the shuck pile you set
A pair of shivery eggs, as thanks. As praise.
This poem also appears in the November 2024 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 89, No. 11, page 8). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
