I’ve been called—


vixen man-eater

shape shifter (even the adorable Vulpix

becomes something with nine-tails).

I’ve been mis-gendered

called she/her

until I ransack the chicken coop slay

too many to carry  to cache

and then  I’m a he/him a dog-fox.

How do I grieve? By leaving the rabbits alone.

By killing to kill.

If I cross your path  it’s considered: good luck  bad luck

a sign from the dead  a threat a wake-up call

a divine message

as if

my coats of silver and fire my delicate face

the perfect way my slender body slips beneath the wire

and into the coop

could portend your fate.