by Megan Lancour

Bring me a child
born in the brambles,
a fox-fostered foundling,
wilds reflected in dark eyes.

He'll bite with his kit teeth,
and snarl at my gentling hand
that seeks to comb the tangles
from his black briar-braided hair.

Bring me a child
pulled from a burrow
with earth-coated skin,
the smell of the den upon him.

He will not be an easy child,
his teeth cut early on flesh.
His bite will bring blood
and his scratches will sting.

Bring me a child
so we can run in the moonlight,
a dream-filled mother
and her child, untamed.

Megan Lancour lives in Wisconsin and spends much of her time repairing books in a university library, as well as reading as many of them as she can. Her favourite fruit is the blueberry -- which she declares to be a rather unassuming little fruit.

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