The old woman knew that the monster lived in the flat above her own
that it waited on the roof at night with cat-slit amber eyes
and sharp claws that mirrored the curve of the crescent moon.
She knew as well that in the morning the monster would steal the form
of a beautiful maiden, and pretend to be human.
Five doors down the darkened hall, a man sat at his table
polishing the gleaming shaft of his rifle, which he had loaded with
bullets tipped in silver, for he had seen the monster and coveted her body
while trembling at the thought of her blood-flecked teeth at his throat.
And his mind was filled with visions of penetration.
Above him the preacher fell to his knees as her sweet howl
cut through the lies held close to his heart, and he hated the monster
for fanning the flames of lust and fear twined deeply
in his soul. And he lined each place where the Bible spoke of wolves
in red, and waited for a judgement that would never come.
In the tenement across from her own, a young boy had seen her
dancing below the silver moon and marveled at her beauty, her smile
and the arc of her tails as she moved with grace born of flesh and
bone. And the boy was filled with dreams of times long past
and distant lands that spilled out in vibrant hues to paint the world.
In the center the kitsune smiled, drawing the thoughts of those around her
into a silver strand woven from the hopes, and fears, and desires of the
multitude, her tails curled into questions that would never be answered
that had yet to be asked, that edged her fur in love and hate.
And she looked to the end of the thread, and laughed.
Joel Woodman (December, 1995)
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