so. It was
an evil dream. I wish such dreams
on no one.”
“Before I fled the charnel house,
before I rode poor Betsy into a lather,
before we fled down the white road,
the blood still red
(And was it a pig whose throat you slit, Mister Fox?)
before I came to my father’s inn,
before I fell before them speechless,
my father, brothers, friends—”
All honest farmers, fox-hunting men.
They are stamping their boots, their black boots.
“—before that, Mister Fox,
I seized, from the floor, from the bloody floor,
her hand, Mister Fox. The hand of the woman
you hacked apart before my eyes.”
“It is not so—”
“It was no dream. You Creature. You Bluebeard.”
“It was not so—”
“You Gilles-de-Rais. You monster.”
“And God forbid it should be so!”
She smiles now, lacking mirth or warmth.
The brown hair curls around her fare,
roses twining about a bower.
Two spots of red are burning on her cheeks.
“Behold, Mister Fox! Her hand! Her poor pale hand!”
She pulls it from her breasts (gently freckled,
I had dreamed of those breasts),
tosses it down upon the table.
It lays in front of me.
Her father, brothers, friends,
they stare at me hungrily,
and I pick up the small thing.
The hair was red indeed and rank. The pads and claws
were rough. One end was bloody,
but the blood had dried.
“This is no hand,” I tell them. But the first
fist knocks the wind from out of me,
an oaken cudgel hits my shoulder,
as I stagger,
the first black boot kicks me down onto the floor.
And then a rain of blows beats down on me,
I curl and mewl and pray and grip the paw
so tightly.
Perhaps I weep.
I see her then,
the pale fair girl, the smile has reached her lips,
her skirts so long as she slips, gray-eyed,
amused beyond all bearing, from the room.
She’d many a mile to go that night.
And as she leaves,
from my vantage place upon the floor,
I see the brush, the tail between her legs;
I would have called,
but I could speak no more. Tonight she’ll be running
four-footed, sure-footed, down the white road.
What if the hunters come?
What if they come?
Be bold, I whisper once, before I die. But not too bold . . .
And then my tale is done.
QUEEN OF KNIVES
The reappearance of the lady is a matter of individual taste.
— WILL GOLDSTON, TRICKS AND ILLUSIONS
When I was a boy, from time to time,
I stayed with my grandparents
(old people: I knew they were old—
chocolates in their house
remained uneaten until I came to stay,
this, then, was aging).
My grandfather always made breakfast at sunup:
a pot of tea, for her and him and me,
some toast and marmalade
(the Silver Shred and the Gold). Lunch and dinner,
those were my grandmother’s to make, the kitchen
was again her domain, all the pans and spoons,
the mincer, all the whisks and knives, her loyal subjects.
She would prepare the food with them, singing her little songs:
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do,
or sometimes,
You made me love you, I didn’t want to do it,
I didn’t want to do it.
She had no voice, not one to speak of.
Business was very slow.
My grandfather spent his days at the top of the house,
in his tiny darkroom where I was not permitted to go,
bringing out paper faces from the darkness,
the cheerless smiles of other people’s holidays.
My grandmother would take me for gray walks along the promenade.
Mostly I would explore
the small wet grassy space behind the house,
the blackberry brambles, and the garden shed.
It was a hard week for my grandparents
forced to entertain a wide-eyed boy-child, so
one night they took me to the King’s Theatre. The King’s . . .
Variety!
The lights went down, red curtains rose.
A popular comedian of the day
came on, stammered out his name (his catchphrase),
pulled out a sheet of glass, and stood half-behind it,
raising the arm and leg that we could see;
reflected,
he seemed to fly—it was his trademark,
so we all laughed and cheered. He told a joke or two,
quite badly. His haplessness, his awkwardness,
these were what we had come to see.
Bemused and balding and bespectacled,
he reminded me a little of my grandfather. And then the comedian was done.
Some ladies danced all legs across the stage.
A singer sang a song I didn’t know.
The audience were old people,
like my grandparents, tired and retired,
all of them laughing and applauding.
In the interval my grandfather
queued for a choc ice and a couple of tubs.
We ate our ices as the lights went down.
The SAFETY CURTAIN rose, and then the real curtain.
The ladies danced across the stage again,
and then the thunder rolled, the smoke went puff,
a conjurer appeared and bowed. We clapped.
The lady walked on, smiling from the wings:
glittered. Shimmered. Smiled.
We looked at her, and in that moment flowers grew,
and silks and pennants tumbled from his