When I was ten my mother, having sold
her old fox-fur (a ginger red bone-jawed
Magda Lupescu
of a fox that on her arm played
dead, cunningly dangled
a lean and tufted paw)

decided there was money to be made
from foxes, and brought via
the columns of the Courier-Mail a whole
pack of them; they hung from penny hooks
in our paneled sitting-room, trailed from the backs
of chairs; and Brisbane ladies, rather
the worse for war, drove up in taxis wearing
a G.I. on their arm
and rang at our front door.

I slept across the hall, at night hearing
their thin cold cry. I dreamed the dangerous spark
of their eyes, brushes aflame
in our fur-hung, nomadic
tent in the suburbs, the dark fox-stink of them
cornered in their holes
and turning.

Among my mother’s show pieces —
Noritake teacups, tall hock glasses
with stems like barley-sugar,
goldleaf demitasses —
the foxes, row upon row, thin-nosed, prick-eared,
dead.

The cry of hounds
was lost behind mirror glass,
where ladies with silken snoods and fingernails
of Chinese laquer red
fastened a limp paw;
went down in their high heels
to the warm soft bitumen, wearing at throat
and elbow the rare spoils
of ’44; old foxes, rusty red like dried-up wounds,
and a G.I. escort.