When the foxes mate, the cat
goes outside more often, sitting
at the edge of the woods, head
twitching, eyes resembling two
jaundiced, burlap circles glazed
with a predator’s curiosity
as raspy squawks beat like the apple
of discord come to life under
some felled tree in the dark,
mucky acre next door where he
no longer hunts. One morning
he left a female cardinal’s head
and wing by the back door. Torn
bits of down were glued inside
the maroon circle that had dried
overnight. Her red plume
was untouched and her still-glistening
eyes open as if she were waiting
for her mate. And where was he
I wondered? Sitting alone
in some tree, head swiveling
with a grub in his beak, waiting
to place it in her mouth with
a frenetic tenderness of little
stabs that she probably learned
to love years ago when they first
started together. Like a man
spilling red wine all over his wife
on their first date, it might
have been a funny story she told
to their children as their necks stretched
like nappy rubber bands and they
begged for more family history
they’d never hear.