Poem
Michael Symmons Roberts
Fox in a Man Suit
Fox in a Man Suit
Fox in a Man Suit
Masked, gloved, brush tucked flatagainst her back, faint with heat
this vixen is silent at soirees,
attentive to talk of defence, the public purse.
Emissary from the wild woods, agent
from the other side, she shakes her head
at wine, at canapés, she gags on human
stench, their meat and sweat.
When taxis come, she slips through kitchens,
drops to all fours (still in black tie),
sprints along the back streets
like a feral duke until she meets the edgelands
where – rubbed on the shuck of a tree –
her man-skin peels off
like a calyx and the sleek red flower unfurls.
Tongue drinks in the cold,
nose down in leaf mould, deep rush and tow
of attachment, of instinct. I, the only witness,
take this for a resurrection (body sloughed
and after-life as fox-soul), so I watch
in awe and slow my breath until
she catches sight and howls and howls.
© 2008, Michael Symmons Roberts
From: The Half Healed
Publisher: Jonathan Cape, London, UK
From: The Half Healed
Publisher: Jonathan Cape, London, UK
Michael Symmons Roberts
(United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 1963)
Michael Symmons Roberts is a poet, librettist and novelist. His poetry is known for its expression of spiritual concerns through physical – especially bodily – realities, earning him the reputation of a modern metaphysical poet. He remains one of the few poets in Britain who are writing overtly religious poetry in a way that engages with modern tropes, and modern doubt.
The novelist Jeanette W...
The novelist Jeanette W...
Poems
Poems of Michael Symmons Roberts
Close
Fox in a Man Suit
Masked, gloved, brush tucked flatagainst her back, faint with heat
this vixen is silent at soirees,
attentive to talk of defence, the public purse.
Emissary from the wild woods, agent
from the other side, she shakes her head
at wine, at canapés, she gags on human
stench, their meat and sweat.
When taxis come, she slips through kitchens,
drops to all fours (still in black tie),
sprints along the back streets
like a feral duke until she meets the edgelands
where – rubbed on the shuck of a tree –
her man-skin peels off
like a calyx and the sleek red flower unfurls.
Tongue drinks in the cold,
nose down in leaf mould, deep rush and tow
of attachment, of instinct. I, the only witness,
take this for a resurrection (body sloughed
and after-life as fox-soul), so I watch
in awe and slow my breath until
she catches sight and howls and howls.
From: The Half Healed
Fox in a Man Suit
Sponsors
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère