Fox's Glade a poem in which i am neither a monster nor a martyr

mute characters, even selectively mute, are difficult to play! whew!

he begins to circle her. he has assured her he will not hurt her yet his actions are still predatory, posessive.  she wonders what he is taking in — her gamine form?  the blood that rusts her alabaster pelt?  

she still struggles with such abstract notions such as the awareness of a self, she is not.. worried, or embarrassed by her condition.  perhaps he is simply curious, the same way she is about him.

yet something about him strikes fear into the very depths of her heart, chambers pumping whup-whup! in rapid succession as he tells her that she has been chosen, that she is his.

it is not the posession that she is worried about.  somewhere deep within she almost.. wished for someone to whisk her away, to care for her and mend her, for she was never meant to be alone.  maybe it is the way that he looks, like the sky during a storm, cracked open by lightning.

he looks back at her and beckons, come with me, and wordlessly she pulls close behind him, taking her turn to scent him and look him over so long as he does not spurn her.