The Fox’s Lover
by Ada Hoffmann
The howling air blows snow into your footprints,
four-toed, leading from my door.
Everything you touched tonight is cold again.
Every time, I plan to be prepared.
Night to day; the sleeping side
of a cycle; no great pain. Every time,
I'm screaming along with the wind.
We do not know where you are,
the wind and I,
nor when you will return.
I set out, each morning, for you.
Trinkets to attract your playful spirit:
acorns carved into dice, hare-skulls,
glass like ice dyed sunset-color,
broken traps. For the animal
who cannot be caught unless it wills it.
White fox, I would hold you to me,
weigh us down and let the snow-mountain cover us.
Let the wide-footed bears pad overtop,
crushing snow into static blue ice.
In the dark, if I am careful -
if I set the trinkets just so,
if I do not light a candle
or open my eyes -,
your weight is like a man's.
Your skin, silky and shivering,
a woman's. You are no dumb beast
when your tongue rakes winter lightning
across me, nor when you hold me after,
warm against the air.
Later, I rise -
the nights are long here - and tend
the fire back to wakefulness.
I offer you the dark morning's
eggs, the salt fish.
You have padded to my feet,
you and your shock of white fur,
all dog again. In this form,
something blue-white shines
under your fur, like a snowbound sky.
I ruffle your ears, as if touching you
so lightly could pull that heart
and that light into my hand.
You tell me, with that rough and pointed
tongue: I am beautiful.
I am clever, to have captured a fox.
Watching that light in you,
I almost believe it: I am warm,
safe here with one who loves me;
this snow banked cottage is a circle
of enchanted grace. Everything white
and shining.
Will you stay? No.
Never.
Howling with the wind, I fall backwards
into powdered white. Watch the uncaring sky,
its green and rosy flickering lines,
until all tears have frozen
and my eyes close.
I am safe here in my fur-lined coat,
warm enough to sleep out the cold.
Scarf piling wool on my face,
I breathe warmly and deeply.
I dream:
My heart is scrubbed with blue-white frost,
glowing and clean. You did not bring it here.
You led me, mirrorlike, in fox-print circles
back to the soul that already
looked like yours.
I am beautiful, clever,
warm and safe and loved in this white world,
whether or not it is said
by a trickster's shining tongue.
There is no need to wait in the weeping wind.
In the morning, I set out your trinkets again.
Ada Hoffmann is the author of the OUTSIDE space opera trilogy, the collections MONSTERS IN MY MIND and MILLION-YEAR ELEGIES, and dozens of speculative short stories and poems. Ada’s work has been a finalist for the Philip K. Dick Award (2020, THE OUTSIDE), the Compton Crook Award (2020, THE OUTSIDE), and the WSFA Small Press Award (2020, “Fairest of All”). They are the winner of the Friends of the Merrill Collection Short Story Contest (2013, “The Mother of All Squid Builds a Library”) and a five-time Rhysling award nominee (2014 for “The Siren of Mayberry Crescent”; 2017 for “The Giantess’s Dream”; 2022 for “Dream Logic,” “Prologue: The Late Heavy Bombardment,” and “Epilogue: Memento Mori”). Ada’s novel-length work is represented by Hannah Bowman of Liza Dawson Associates.
Ada was diagnosed with autism at the age of 13, and is passionate about autistic self-advocacy. Their Autistic Book Party review series is devoted to in-depth discussions of autism representation in speculative fiction. Much of their own work also features autistic characters.
Ada is an adjunct professor of computer science at a major Canadian university, and they did their PhD thesis (in 2018) on teaching computers to write poetry. Under their legal name, they have presented their scholarly work at conferences around the world. They are a former semi-professional soprano, tabletop gaming enthusiast, and LARPer. They live in eastern Ontario with a curious black cat.