POEM Ian McLachlan

NWR Issue 112

Fox Blues

Following a Flemish band this fox at Nambucca,
red brush draped on one paw, plucks up a storm
yelping ‘Blue Fox’, ‘Cold Calling’, all the classics
second and third tails thumping percussion.
This fox knew the skewer of fizzling nights
frisking a lukewarm tray of lamb korma
snout-deep in wet Domino’s boxes.
Take me home, he says, for a game of fox-fist:
headman trumps hunter – outranks him;
hunter trumps fox – he shoots him;
fox trumps headman whom he bewitches.
He ate a great deal, craved rice, adzuki beans.
My neighbours’ trash sacked, of course it’s him.
I’m trouble, he says. Then I fuss to be free.
But pacing thicket streets I look for him
there, rich coat flashing rain. Palm up
to high five him, gently he grips my hand.
I wake as from a dream, filthy, far from
Holloway, the fug of fox still on me.

Ian McLachlan has had poems published in a number of magazines including The Rialto, Magma, Under the Radar, and South Bank Poetry. His illustrated poetry pamphlet, Confronting the Danger of Art, is available from Sidekick Books. He enjoys singing and playing guitar, and tweets @ianjmclachlan


previous poem: From Bitch’s Daughter
next poem: Postcards


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