June 6, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

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Penn Kemp




Steal, Stole, Stun



The dried heads of black fox hung

from my grandmother’s stole as if

ready to strike. Dead flat button jet

eyes shut tight to their own secret


wiles. When she turned to talk to me

from the front seat of dad’s Meteor,

the foxes would swing in turn back

as if they too had something to say.


And what they whispered was darker

than words, darker that the deepest

lake they drowned in. That dark knew

how to spread and fill the entire car.


Their dark buried my grandmother’s kind

words in black ink. They buried her and

her stories of wild Irish banshees wailing

on roofs to warn us of imminent death.






Penn Kemp

Penn Kemp is an activist Canadian poet, playwright and editor.  Her latest works are Local Heroes, and the forthcoming Fox Haunts. Recent books include Barbaric Cultural Practice and two anthologies edited, Women and Multimedia and Performing Women. See www.pennkemp.weebly.com.

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