Foxing

There are some weeks where I go about as a fox. Turn my hair to bright flashing flame and slip, sleek, into bright-furred skin and roam as I please. As a fox, I can scurry and scamper and strut, smirking and smooth in defiance of all. As a fox I scorn to be meek, to adopt a nocturnal penance; faint, washed-out coat and slinking apologetic furtiveness. My mane is brilliant orange like hot coaks, my neck is untouched snow shining like winter and I dazzle and delight as I go. Jealousy and contempt abound, reproving looks and venomed words from dingy corners and lofty moulding houses, but what have I to fear? They would force me from my fox-skin, dress me in their drab, prisoner’s rags, but first they must catch me and that they cannot do. I defy their propriety, damn their obligation. A fox knows things they could never, a fox has ways and means beyond them, I fit through the holes in their walls, I find passages they cannot see, I double back and laugh as they lose me, I relish the chase as they grow tired and angry and their obsession deepens. A fox has friends too, jolly robin brings me news, the crow hears my stories, the cat shares my catch. I see my kindred fox and I adore them, noble scamping fur catching light under the street lamp. We are twin princes of the moment, meeting in our regalia of estate, two perfections of our art. For that moment we are two strangers together.

My foxing done, I return home, back to my human house and the fox and I trade places. She dons my form, I slip off her fox coat, and we rest. My body grows, changes, it shapes to my design, a home of my own making, formed of my art. My breasts are my will made flesh, my voice is a joy, born of effort and shared with the world. The fox curls up in the core of me, my forge, and roars alight, powering the heart of me.