The Spartan Fox
by Jan Iwaszkiewicz
I found my father’s passport in the drawer,
one look at his old photograph enough
to wake the hidden fox and feel it gnaw.
The pain is just as I remember: tough
to take, a sort of elemental hurt.
These foxes never die and I revert
to childhood where I learnt the fallacy
of strength in silence that has crippled me.
