by Prof. Katharyn Machan
From the April 2015 Issue

So now her son’s making
another film about death.
Fox waits behind the scenes,
listening.
He tells his actors
to pretend it’s all sex,
paws scrabbling against cold dark
that would snuff the flame within them.
Sighs. Longing. Deep full gaze
into the mirror of yearning.
Fox’s son is a true director,
his cameo roles perfection.
She watches as real teeth protrude,
fangs and knives and cameras.
Remembering when he was young,
that high full moon, the labyrinth
around them as she danced and danced
to his small fingers, drumming.