Through the High Grass

John Sibley Williams

My mother says fox while gesturing toward an old red wagon abandoned in our yard for decades. A word so cavernous her entire body vanishes into it. Body of misfiring electrons. Scattered images, contexts. Body that is mainly just body now. No other animal knows how to be this incomplete. I think: if you were a fox coyotes would have eaten you by now. I say: yes, I’ll climb into that fox and let you pull me through the high grass one more time.