I Found a Dead Fox
by: Mary Oliver
I found a dead fox about foxes.
beside the gravel road, But what happened is this--
curled inside the big when I began,
iron wheel when I crawled in
of an old tractor through the honeysuckle
that has been standing, and lay down,
for years, curling my long spine
in the vines at the edge inside that cold wheel,
of the road. and touched the dead fox,
I don't know and looked out
what happened to it-- into the wide fields,
when it came there the fox
or why it lay down vanished.
for good, settling There was only myself
its narrow chin and the world,
on the rusted rim and it was I
of the iron wheel who was leaving.
to look out And what could I sing
over the fields, then?
and that way died-- Oh, beautiful world!
but I know I just lay there
this: its posture-- and looked at it.
of looking, And then it grew dark,
to the last possible moment, That day was done with.
back into the world-- And then the stars stepped forth
made me want and held up their appointed fires--
to sing something those hot, hard
joyous and tender watchmen of the night.
It's a strange impulse Oliver has, to lay down with the dead fox, curl herself around its body, touch its face. To look out at the world, see what the fox saw in its last breathing moments. The wide fields of the world. Oliver's poem is a celebration really, a psalm, joyous and tender.
The Catholic Church celebrates the feast days of saints. For example, today, August 17th, is the feast day of Saint Clare of the Cross Montefalco. I'm not going to go into Clare's life or accomplishments. The thing that is significant is that she died on August 17, 1308. Feast days are basically death days.
The reason the Catholic Church honors saints on the days of their deaths is because it is in death these holy people finally entered into the glory of God. I suppose that's somehow meant to inspire Christians. Don't be afraid of dying because, when your heart stops and lungs go still, you finally get to see the face of the Divine.
Every year, my dad would go through his calendar and write the birthdays and death days of family members. I understood the need to write birthday reminders. To buy presents or send cards. However, death day reminders always creeped me out a little. As if my dad was trying to resurrect, every year, the loss and attendant grief. He created feast days for his dead.
As I've gotten older, I've begun to understand why my father did this. It's all about keeping the candle of someone's memory burning, making sure it doesn't fade into oblivion. Think about it. When you visit a cemetery, you're surrounded by stones bearing the names of the dead. If you speak one of those names, give it breath, for those few seconds, that person is resurrected. Alive again.
In two days' time, it will be the eighth feast day for my sister Sally. Two days beyond that, it will be the first feast day for my good friend Helen. I type their names here, say them aloud. Give them breath again. The sting of grief is still with me. I feel their absences like missing teeth that my tongue keeps trying to find.
I'm not wallowing. I'm remembering. Resurrecting. Think of it as poetic CPR.
Here are the names of Saint Marty's dead: Sally and Helen. Put them on your tongue. Say them, like a prayer or incantation. A bright sun in the belly of clouds.
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